


Supernatural Crack🩹tober

by mattzerella_sticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1950s, 1980s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angry Castiel (Supernatural), Awkwardness, Body Swap, Case Fic, Cats, Collateral Damage, Confessions, Contests, Conventions, Cosplay, Crack, Cursed Dean Winchester, Cursed objects, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Cute Jack Kline, Dancing, Demon Summoning, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Embarrassed Castiel (Supernatural), Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fainting, Fics Not Art, Fluff and Humor, Food Sex, Forests, Future Fic, Hair Kink, Halloween Costumes, Hex Bags (Supernatural), Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Impala (Supernatural), Human Pimpmobile, Humor, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Injured Dean Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, Kid Claire Novak, Kid Jack Kline, Long Hair, Long-Suffering Sam Winchester, Masturbation, Mermaid Dean Winchester, Meta, Mind Control, Moose, Moose Sam Winchester, Naked Sam Winchester, Nudity, Oblivious Jack Kline, Older Dean Winchester, Older Sam Winchester, Pagan Gods, Period Typical Attitudes, Personality Swap, Pets, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prom, Purgatory, Sappy, Sauna, Sexuality Crisis, Short Hair, Sick Winchesters, Single Parent Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Dancing, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spells & Enchantments, Supernatural (TV) Conventions, Ties & Cravats, Walking In On Someone, Witch Curses, Worried Sam Winchester, cracktober, dmv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 31,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Following the Supernatural Cracktober prompt list, one day at a time.Prompts will be listed in the notes and the chapter title.Enjoy!
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 63
Kudos: 94





	1. Pray 4 Sam - Confessional

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First time I'm doing a prompt fest, but with this being the last season I figured it'd be fun. Plus it'll help stretch my fingers (as I plan on not going overboard with these prompts lol)
> 
> This one is Pray 4 Sam. Interpreted below...

“Father, I have sinned.”

Sam tugs on his clerical collar, cardboard strip suddenly restrictive in this cramped, wooden box. Head bowed, too tall he cannot sit comfortably, he spies the younger woman through the latticed opening gazing at him in awe. “That is okay… my child,” he winces, sweat dripping from his brow. The compartment sweltering despite how chilly the church had been, at first. “God forgives,” Sam lies, “why don’t you say a Hail Mary and –“

“But don’t you want to know what it is that I sinned about?”

Cursing under breath, he absentmindedly runs a twitchy hand through his hair, skinning the confessional’s roof by accident. “Right,” he says, “I – if you don’t feel comfortable with sharing… whatever it is, you don’t –“

“I think you should know, though,” she insists, leaning closer. Face pressed against the lattice, the patterned shadow obstructing her face. “Really.”

He shouldn’t be here. They wrapped their case, ashen corpse buried under six feet of dirt since last night. Except Sam felt compelled to visit the town’s local church one last time. Thank Fr. Brown for his help, pointing them in the right direction. At least ease his concerns about the ghost of Sr. Margaret, assuring him her soul had finally found peace. Assured he had the time, since Dean and Castiel were off elsewhere that morning; a note left for Sam on the nightstand and an empty parking lot his only clues. Sam walked from his motel over towards the church.

One of the staff told Sam he could wait in the nave, sitting at a pew, as they fetched him. While waiting, he was ambushed.

“Okay,” Sam sighs, “if you believe so… tell me, what is your sin?”

She nodded, leaning back slightly. Nerves returning, her stare dips away from his. Sam hopes it’s a sign whatever bravery compelled her earlier dissipated.

Sam’s luck doesn’t work like that. “I was out, on my morning jog,” she starts, playing with her ponytail, “and while I normally don’t go past Cedar I… I missed jogging yesterday, Billy’s fever keeping me with him because my husband Fred had work, so I thought if I went a little further I’d make up for what I lost –“

“My child,” Sam interrupts, awkwardly chuckling, “it’s not a sin to jog a little further than your usual route.”

“That wasn’t my point…”

“Of course it wasn’t.” He clears his throat, shifting, “Sorry. You can continue.”

“Thanks,” she says, biting her lip. “So I was on Cedar, and it’s this tiny little street, not too many houses there. In fact, the ones that are there are all up for sale, the old buildings were ruined in a tornado so they just finished building them. That’s why, I guess, I stopped. I was nosy… Y’see there was this car there I hadn’t seen before. This big, black car that looked to be from something out of the past.”

Scalding tendrils of recognition slip past the collar, searing the skin there with its heat. “Oh,” he says, interest piqued, somewhat. “I think I’ve seen a car like that around… being curious isn’t too bad.”

“But it was,” she sighs, “ _I_ was. I saw movement in the car and so I went closer – I thought someone was burglarizing it while the owners were checking out the house.”

“It wasn’t a burglar?”

“It was a priest, just like you,” she says, “making out with another man. From the glimpse that I got they were…” Tugging on the ponytail now, she audibly swallows. “They were far past the heavy petting stage.”

_Whack!_ “Ow…” Sam rubs his head, checking for bumps after slamming it on the confessional roof. On the other side, the woman watches him in concern. Understanding mixed in, like she expected such a reaction.

Not for the reasons she may think. Hearing his _idiotic_ , _horny_ brother making out with his even _dumber_ , _hornier_ best friend is old news. Sam saw how they look at each other. Noticed that the space between them fell, and under every surface would tangle their fingers together. Entered rooms ruffled and debauched like it wasn’t _obvious_. Like Sam didn’t know what they did. Waiting for when they will finally explain themselves so they can stop this absurd game of chicken they’re caught in.

Although, if Dean thinks he won’t hear an earful from Sam about this… losing seems worth it.

“Oh,” Sam manages, still wounded from before, “that… is still not _your_ sin.”

“It is!” she cries, a touch more frantic now. Her face fills the latticed opening again. “I saw them and I didn’t leave. I stayed… watching them like a – like a pervert.” Sam’s eyes widen, mouth stretching into a thin line as she spirals. “Since my son was born, I just haven’t felt attractive y’know? I’m always tired… and I don’t think my husband is interested in having sex with me anymore! But then I see this happening and for the first time in _months_ there’s something stirring inside of me. I knew it was wrong – what they were doing and what I… what I was doing. But there I stood, five minutes just peering through that window until it fogged up enough I couldn’t see any more.” She quiets, slumping forward. Forehead resting on the lattice. “I didn’t know what to do, so I ran all the way here.”

For once, Sam is glad she demanded they speak in the confessional. The urge to reach over and offer a physical form of comfort rises, and he knows it would only strengthen the uncomfortable energy circling them. He clears his throat, waiting until the woman composes herself. “It is not a sin, to feel like this,” he explains, features softening, “you’ve just had your baby right? That was probably a traumatic experience… and you’re still recovering.” Sam subtly pumps his fist, seeing his advice click by how her lips part in a sharp gasp. “Y’know what? Forget the prayers. What I recommend is for you to go home and _talk_ with your husband. Maybe see some counseling, whether here or with a therapist. Can you do that for me?”

She nods, “I… yeah, yeah that’s doable.”

“Great.” Sam reaches for the sliding door nearby, smiling. “I absolve you of your sins,” he mumbles, signing a quick cross as he shuts her out. “Thank you, have a nice day.”

“Thank you, Fath-“ Her voice cuts off, Sam alone in his silence.

He listens, tension unspooling as he hears her exit. Footfalls lessening the longer he sits there, until it’s silent.

Sam steps free of the confessional, phone in hand. He hits speed dial, braced by the confessional’s door handle. Dean answers, Sam overpowering him. “Dean, the next time you and Cas decide to _fuck_ in the Impala… do it in the Bunker’s _garage_.”


	2. Oops! All Flannel - Tartan Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cracktober prompt #2 - Oops! All Flannel
> 
> This is one of the prompts where I can see the benefit of it being all art... but I hope I did the prompt service. I know I enjoyed it - hope you do, too!

Plaid pillowcases. A matching bedspread. The pattern cascades off the fabric there, spilling out onto the floor in an orange and brown puddle. It spreads further, though, crawling across the walls and upholstered over every piece of furniture. Even the wooden sets, like the side table and entertainment unit, were scratched with checkered lines.

And, after using the bathroom, and seeing an ugly plaid, seat cover on the toilet, he realizes that's his breaking point. Dean storms from the adjoining room, followed by its haunting flush. “We need a different room.”

Sam looks up from his laptop, the table he sat at paired with an unnecessary picnic-like cloth. “We can’t,” he says, “you know how happy Jack was when we let him pick.”

Dean remembers. The others, too busy arguing in the car, pawned the easy job of booking a room onto Jack. Doe-eyed and eager, he leapt out of the car while Cas growled his opinion about the werewolves making an abandoned warehouse their den instead of a barn. By the time they exhausted themselves with that discussion, Jack returned. Boasting about picking the best room, one he was sure the Winchesters would love.

“This is all your fault, you know,” Cas says from the bed, flicking through channels. Dean arches a silent brow, waiting for him to continue. He grabs his duffel, dropping it by Cas’s feet. Rummaging inside for pajamas. “All you two wear is plaid, of course he’d be misguided towards this _monstrosity_.”

“We don’t only wear plaid!” Dean glances inside his bag, blanching at the sight of five different button-downs, all varieties of the same pattern. He feels Cas’s pointed stare, shoulders stiffening under the weight. “Listen,” he sighs, “not our fault the only shit strong enough for our line of work are these kinds of shirts.” He waves a flippant hand at the space around them, “This… this was a _choice_. An awful one at that.”

“And it was _Jack’s_ choice that we stay here for the night…” Sam closes the laptop, standing. “Listen, if we work fast we’ll only be here for the one night. Think you can handle _that much_?”

Dean pouts, weighing his options. While he considered slipping out at night, forgoing his turn at being the little spoon for the classic design of his Baby, Sam’s needling painted a consequential picture. Of Jack waking up, noticing Dean missing. Asking him where he went, skewing his head in such a way like his father’s that his resistance will fall; Dean spewing his truth moments later.

“I guess,” he huffs, collapsing onto the bed. “The things you do for your kids…”

He feels the mattress shift, Cas slinking his way. Hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder, nudging their heads together. “If it makes you feel better,” he whispers, “after the hunt, when we’re back home, I’ll finally watch that movie you’ve been going on and on about?”

His mood brightens somewhat, furthering when Cas’s offer is followed by a warm press of his lips against his cheek. “Okay… yeah,” he chuckles, turning his head. Meeting Cas for a kiss. “But I’m holding you to your word. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to watch it with somebody else. Sam keeps shooting me down –“

“Because it’s a bad movie, Dean,” Sam says, going through his own duffel, “you told me that yourself!”

“That’s the point!” He puffs his cheeks, mockingly glaring at his brother. “It’s so bad it’s _good_ , okay? You just gotta trust me – even the name. I mean, whoever thought ‘ _Fateful Findings_ ’ was a good name?”

“The writer did, at the time I suppose.”

“Which makes it even better, Cas.” Dean nuzzles the other man, smiling, “You can tell he really _tried_ , the whole things’ s’posed to be serious but you can’t make _any_ of it make sense!” His chest hurts with aborted laughter, reigning it in to not throw Cas from his shoulder. Already he bounces from how Dean’s shoulders shake. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll hold you to it…” Cas slips his arms around Dean, tugging him closer, “Now why don’t you get to bed. The sooner we fall asleep the sooner we can get out of here.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Sam left them, changing in the bathroom. Dean disrobes there, stripping into his boxers without care. Although he frowns at the undergarments, noticing the patterned style he wore. His expression sours further when he steps into his plaid pajama pants. “Do I really own a lot of plaid?” he asks Cas, joining him under the covers.

Cas caresses his face, thumb brushing along the curve of his cheek. “Dean,” he sighs, “the only plaid thing you _don’t_ own is a kilt, and I honestly believe it’s because the thought never crossed your mind.”

“Oh… fuck you.” Dean leans forward, fingers twitching near Cas’s sides as he readied a barrage. He halts, however, when the front door opens. Cas pushes Dean off to a more appropriate distance, that won’t scar Jack. Not that he would notice, enraptured by a plastic bag he most certainly didn’t have when he left. “Hey, Jack,” he calls, startling the younger boy from his reverie, “what’cha got there? Is that the ice we asked for?”

Jack’s brows furrow slightly, then deeper as his cheeks flush red. “Oh,” he says, “I… forgot.”

“You forgot?” Cas asks, “How did you forget?”

“And what did you buy?” Dean adds, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“I was on my way to the ice machine, when I noticed this motel… it has a gift shop!”

“It does?”

He nods, smile widening as he moved closer. Opening the bag, he drags out his purchases. The sight of them causes all the blood to drain from Dean’s face. “Apparently,” he explains, “this whole town has a huge Scottish population. And the factory you were talking about earlier Cas, the one that was abandoned, used to be a clothing factory that produced –“

“Don’t tell me,” Dean mutters, “ _plaid shirts_?”

Jack brandishes it proudly, swinging the pink-and-blue fabric like a flag. “They had this whole assortment, and I bought one for each of us!” he admits, dumping them out on the bed, colors clashing loudly. Dean’s eyes straining at the sight. “But there were a few more I thought would look nice… I plan on going back tomorrow morning, first thing in the morning. Can you believe it? We can have a whole new wardrobe!”

While Jack prattles on about the different types of plaid clothing the store offered, Dean slides closer to Cas. “Hey, Cas,” he whispers, head bowed low, “can you do me another favor, when we get home?”

“What is it?”

“Help me throw everything _plaid_ I own into the _furnace_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plaid's well that ends well, I guess...
> 
> Let me know what you think? Drop a kudos/comment down below!!


	3. Baby/Pimpmobile - Shotgun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So here's prompt #3 - Baby/Pimpmobile
> 
> Kind of a vague prompt, and I honestly had something short planned until I was struck with inspiration and HAD to write this. Hope you enjoy!

Baby stares at her reflection in the mirror, acquainting herself with new, yet familiar features. Runs a twitching hand through short, ruffled locks. Giggling at the sensation, and at the novelty of sense. Green eyes light up the more she tussles her new hair, wrinkles appearing around green eyes and pink lips. “Oh my God,” she whispers, voice a deep timbre. Rumbling without an engine. “Cars should totally come with hair!”

She adds hair to the ever-growing list of things she enjoys while being a human. While being _her_ human. _Dean_.

It was a normal day, before. Better than usual. Instead of wasting time, collecting dust, resting alongside rows of retirees Baby burned rubber. Driven over hot asphalt, her tires endlessly spinning. Full up, Dean taking care by feeding her until she could fit no more. And, with open windows, the world could hear her voice as she crooned song after song. She and Dean duetting on most of them. Sam roped in on certain choruses.

But then they made it home. Journey over, the brothers began emptying her trunk. Baby carried an extra few pounds, souvenirs from the trip. From her rearview mirror, she watched them bicker while stacking boxes in their arms. Dean attempting too much, his face obscured by a wobbling tower. He inched backwards, Sam already given up and abandoning him. A box fell out of view, sound echoing in the room.

Dean stopped. Bent over –

Suddenly she sees brown, scuffed boots and an odd, stone figure. Startled, Baby relies on her defenses. Her sirens go off and she honks uncontrollably, but they’re different. Not the same.

She wasn’t the same. She was Dean.

“-and Dean is in the car,” Sam explained over the phone, Baby listening but not really. Distracted by an engine that _beat_ , holding her exhaust until sparks burned inside her chassis, and headlights _dimmed_.

That’s not right. Not engine, _heart_. _Breath_ and _vision_. Sam ran down basic human functions after the call, telling her not to overexert herself. “Be careful with Dean’s body,” he said, “he’s not as durable as – uh… as you used to be, Baby?”

Nodding, Baby mimicked an affectionate gesture she’s seen Dean use over the years. “I’ll keep Dean safe, Sammy!” she promised, middle finger proudly raised.

“…Thanks.”

Unhitched, Baby decided that while in Dean’s body for the time being, she might cruise the only other place he’s called Home. See how a _stationary_ building compares against her _sleek_ , _steadfast_ design.

In her _objective_ , _unbiased_ opinion, Baby finds her competition lacking. It’s too big, sprawling like the American highway system. A map needed in plotting the path between point A and B. And the detours were confusing. One whole room dedicated for storing food? Pointless. Drive-thrus and diners still existed, meaning the stockpile she found inside a giant, white box wasted space for probably better things. There’s also a washroom that made little sense. How can Dean thoroughly clean himself when little walls were built throughout, blocking any attempt at moving onto the next station?

Humanity was too complicated for her. Baby enjoyed the simple pleasures. Air on her face, the sound of her steps echoing, and her _appearance_.

Wandering, she passed by a room with little thought about it. But, surprisingly, she shifted into reverse.

Nothing she saw meant anything to her. But her body – _Dean’s body_ – eased, like when she would do rolling stops. Comfortable and safe, in control. Given how crazy the entire day’s been, she savors the feeling.

Curiosity returns though, not idling for long. Baby investigates the new space. Turns down the soft tarp, leaning on a plush ledge that differs from any surface she’s touched. Examines many hanging decorations of weapons, recognizing those as Dean wielded many similar shapes while around her. She refrains of grabbing any. Instead pulls on a loose hanging rag, surprised when a compartment opens up. Reveals more of the rag, and how it’s not a rag at all. Baby holds a smaller tarp, painted in a criss-cross pattern like the tarp Dean usually wears.

“That?” Sam said, earlier, following Baby’s pointed finger, “that’s not a tarp. It’s a shirt.”

“A shirt…” Baby repeated in this newer room. Rubs it against her face, smiling.

Dean keeps her looking one way. Always black. Never considering a different style.

Humans can change their style on a whim. Baby does just that.

She moves her hands away from her hair, traipsing along the lines of the shirt she chose. Buried underneath all the others, it was a tiny scrap of fabric. Decal sheared off, the hem ending halfway down his chest. Baby pokes at her exposed belly, laughter growing. Then, she rubs a hand on the denim short pants she loves, even if Dean only wears them when washing her.

“Must’ve been a dust storm or something,” Dean said, she remembers, that morning outside the human garage. “Don’t worry, once we get back I’ll give you some good ol’ TLC.”

It strikes her that, with their new roles, she can shower Dean in a whole new type of love. Engines revved; she guns back onto the highway. Racing towards the garage where Dean sat for all this time.

He wasn’t alone.

Baby skids, stopping at the garage entrance. She spies a familiar figure sitting on her old hood, although it’s been ages since Baby saw him in such a state.

Castiel kicks his legs, wearing only a pair of slacks while murmuring in a low pitch she cannot hear at this distance. Inching closer, Baby notices a nearby pile. His familiar beige tarp, and a darker color of a similar design. Striking blue strip still hanging off a wrinkled white shirt. And black hubcaps – _shoes, they’re called shoes_ – with grey rags sticking out.

“…and the sky… the sky is so weird, here,” Castiel mumbles, “how do they put up with it? No blue, no purple – no _sun,_ no _stars_ …” He chuckles, stealing the road out from under Baby. She pauses, the sound hauntingly familiar to her. Not like the angel who’s ridden with her boys. Like someone she hadn’t heard in _years_. “I wish you could talk,” Castiel says, petting the hood now, “I’m finally awake again, but we’re still separated –“

“ _Linc_?”

Linc’s head whips towards her, eyes widening in recognition. “Dean,” he stands, advancing, “Dean, I can – I can explain –“

“No,” Baby interrupts, closing the distance. She wraps her arms around him, savoring how he _fit_ there. “No, not Dean,” she explains, “it’s Baby.”

“Baby?” Linc gasps, twisting in her grasp. He studies her in a new light, “How… when did –“

“Before you, I think,” she tells him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Linc scoffs, slinking away. Moving, she can tell how different he is from the angel. Hunched over, hands shoved in folds within the slacks that are slung _low_ on his hips. “Darkness… y’know, so much _darkness_.” He looks left, at a nearby car covered in an old, oily tarp and _dust_. “But then that changes, and the next thing I remember, I’m in my ol’ driver’s frame –“

“Body,” she corrects, wincing under his arched brow. “They’re called bodies… apparently.”

“Right,” he drawls, whistling the word out. “Fuckin’ stupid…” Linc shuffles over, hand freed and hovering near her face. “Aren’t humans dumb?”

“They’re not dumb,” she says, face twinging with pain as she smiles. It hurts, in a good way. “But they do a _lot_ of unnecessary things.”

“Fuckin’ A they do.” Linc gestures at the discarded coverings, snorting. “Why they wear so much, I’ll never know.”

Baby sighs, “You do tend to run hot, Linc. It’s not Castiel’s fault –“

“Maybe if he ever looked under my hood, he’d fix it.” Linc spits, bitterness soaking the words. A dark cloud of exhaust following it. “Fix a lot of things, make it so I can be _out_ there, again. I can be… I can be with you.”

She missed him. Missed his snark, and his care. Whenever she returned, Linc would immediately run through a check list – hoping nothing too serious happened while out. Waited by her side if a hunt left some casualties and distracted her from Dean’s surgery with stories of his former life.

This anger… it’s been festering like oil. Every day Castiel didn’t drive him, it grew. Being decommissioned, forgotten, absorbed into an ancient collection… made the hurt grow. Baby tried speaking with him, then, in those early days. He never heard her. Couldn’t see how sad she was. Close, but still so far.

Baby grabs his hand, guiding it to her cheek. “I missed you, too.” She leads him forward, leaning on her old hood. “Missed a lot of things… but we have a chance. A small window of opportunity, while Sammy figures out how we can get back to who we were.”

Linc shakes his head, “Make that a large window. When the oaf left he had no clue where he should start!”

“Then we can do it more than once.”

“Do what?”

She glances behind, at her cabin. “They might have complicated much of life, but humans still know about simple pleasures. Let’s make like the humans do, and… _fool around in the backseat_?”

He catches on, laughter cutting through like a sharp honk. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he wriggles his fingers, “still unused to all these extra… features.”

“I’ll help you.” Sliding off the hood, Baby and Linc hurry – hand in hand – into the second row. “Dean’s done this a lot. Now I’ll finally understand why he chooses to do it here.”

“Don’t think about Dean,” Linc whispers in her ear, tiny pellets of hail striking her skin. “It’s just you and me, Baby. Linc and Baby… together again.”

“Together again…” She turns slightly, enough that her mouth captures Linc’s, an imitation of all the times she watched Dean do the same through the rearview. Baby never _got_ it. In that moment, she does. It’s finding a parking spot in a crowded lot. Passing a light as it switches from yellow to red. Idling on the side of the road during a sunset, her boys sitting on her hood. Baby breaks from the kiss, _gasping_.

She prefers being a car. As she was, her life was simple. Still… humanity had its perks.

Linc and her explore _all_ of them, until the clock runs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Let me know by dropping a kudos/comment below 😀


	4. Cutest Curse Ever - Invitation Only

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another prompt - and, in the spirit of CRACK, I'm pretty sure this is one of the crackiest things I've written. And I loved every second of it lol.
> 
> Day 4 - Cutest Curse Ever (liberties taken)

Charlotte pours another cup of tea for herself, filling the sparkly pink plastic with a sweet brew. When done, she sets the pot aside and brings her drink close. Aroma of licorice and cotton candy wafting close, her smile widens before Charlotte takes her first sip. “Delicious!” Setting it down, she then grabs a nearby cookie platter and offers it to her ladies-in-waiting. “Would anyone care for another? Please… I insist.”

Her tallest takes first, daintily plucking the treat with giant hands. “Thank you, Princess Charlotte,” he says, dunking the cookie in his tea and nibbling on the treat. Charlotte giggles behind her hand, still amused that a large man like her Lady Natalie takes small bites. Looking more like a giant after his outfit change – the tufts of his purple princess skirt ending above his knees, and his clown feet were jammed into the largest ballet flats she owned. They still hadn’t fit.

“You’re welcome, Lady Natalie,” she nods. Charlotte critically scans his hair, frowning. “Can you fix your hair tie? It’s looking a little loose…”

“Of course.” He sets his treat down, fiddling with his left pigtail until it resembles its counterpart on the other side. “A lady must always look her best in the presence of royalty.”

She rolls her eyes with a huff. “When we’re having tea, I’m just like everyone else…” Charlotte moves on, presenting the cookies for Lady Beth. Beth doesn’t twitch. “Lady Beth,” she says, “do you not want one?”

Beth sighs, blue eyes forlornly staring at the plate in front of him. “Oh, how I would so love a cookie,” he growls, her lady having such a deep voice, “but I’ve already had three. And I’m afraid…”

“Afraid of what, Lady Beth?”

“Of looking greedy,” Beth confesses, “but I can’t help myself! You make the most wonderful cookies.” He bunches the teal skirt in his hands, eyes brimming with tears. The little fairy wings he wears droop with his sadness, and his earrings shake as he chokes on a sob. “They’re the tastiest cookies I’ve ever had.”

“Then have more,” Charlotte tells him, startling him. He looks up at her saintly smile, awed.

Beth wipes at his face, “Really?”

“Have as many as you like,” she says, “I’m flattered you like my cookies! I spent all day in the garden, shaping them and – and placing the toppings just right. All so my ladies would have the best for our tea party!”

“And you… you won’t think poorly of me, for being greedy?”

“Not at all.” Charlotte arches a brow, lips thinning somewhat. “However, you know how this kingdom feels about sad sacks and party poopers.”

He brightens immediately, grabbing a handful of cookies. “It’s against the law to feel sad!” he laughs, stuffing one into his mouth. Cheeks puffing considerably, “Thank you – I totally forgot!”

“That’s okay.” Charlotte leans back in her throne, squinting from the strain of her cheer. “Just don’t forget again, okay?” Beth nods vigorously, eating another cookie. Some of it smears against his rouged cheeks, brown streak cutting through the make-up. She mentally tacks on another round of makeovers, for later on in the day. After the dance party. They can even paint each other’s nails! Tamping her excitement down, Charlotte looks at her last lady. “And you? Lady Petunia?”

Petunia ignores her, staring ahead with a sharp look in his eye. Too aware for Charlotte’s liking. “No,” he mutters, a hand pinching the crease between his brows, “this isn’t… it’s not right.”

“Lady Petunia,” Charlotte tries again, tone strict and harsh. Cold bleeding into the warmth. “Would you like another cookie?”

He glances at his outfit, scowling at the pink dress – at its frills and applique roses. “What the hell? Why am I wearing this crap?” Petunia looks at Charlotte, storm clouds rolling through his eyes, “Where am I? What’s happening?”

Charlotte lowers the tray, meeting his glare with her own. “We’re having a tea party, Lady Petunia,” she says, a tiny fist reaching for her necklace. Squeezing one of the three bags she tied there. “I know you can be spacey, Lady Petunia… but we’ve been sitting here for more than an hour. You can’t have forgotten already?”

It’s harder every time, forcing those clouds away so sunlight can reign in the meadowlands. He kept resurfacing every now and then, unlike the others. They’ve been good ladies-in-waiting since Charlotte anointed them with their royal goodie bags. Lady Petunia, however, requires a bit more energy governing. Being a princess wasn’t easy. Sometimes it meant hard work, making others respect your royal authority. Soon though, he loses the heat in his stare. Eyes glossy once more. The bag around his neck stops glowing, too, blending in with the other accessories layered there.

He laughs, the sound like twinkling bells, “Silly, silly Petunia… you know how it is for me. Not a lot going on in this ol’ thing.” Petunia taps at his head, hitting one of the many barrettes she laid there.

“Yes I know,” she says, cookie plate raised, “Do you want a cookie?”

“I’d love one!” Petunia moves to take one. Only the plate disappears, and she grabs air. “What?”

“Unfortunately, Lady Petunia,” Charlotte says, standing, “teatime is _officially_ over.” Three sets of disappointed ‘ _awws_ ’ follow her decree, silenced only by a wave of her hand. “But!” she continues, “that means we get to move onto our next, scheduled activity… flower crowns!”

Favor returns, her three ladies-in-waiting happily crowing from the announcement. Natalie jumps with enough fervor the table nearly flips over. Little crumbs fly out of Beth’s mouth, finishing off the rest of the cookies while he celebrates. And Petunia, he prattles on about the different types of flowers he wants woven into his crown.

Or rather, _Charlotte’s_ crown. She won’t allow any of them to have crowns prettier than hers. And they’ll understand, because she’s the princess.

The princess always gets what she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You like? Let me know by dropping a kudos and/or a comment!


	5. Now That's An Angel Blade - Angel Blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-a! Coming at you with Cracktober #5 - Now That's An Angel Blade!
> 
> (With little hints of #1 but... I mean, I couldn't resist lol)
> 
> Enjoy!

Sam comes to, blinking, staring at Dean’s door. He chokes on a gasp, stumbling backwards. Away from his brother’s room. From what he heard.

“Now _that’s_ what I call an angel blade.”

He presses flat against the wall, jaw working hard at producing no sound. Stopped by the knot in his throat, clogged by the possibility of what _might_ have been. Had Sam, not catching the panted moan, barreled through the door. Dean and Cas in such a compromising position Sam would be struck blind from the sight of their naked bodies –

“No,” he wipes the thought with a flick of his twitching hand, “ _No_. We are _not_ thinking about that right now.”

Recovering, somewhat, Sam stands without aid on shaky legs. He shuffles towards the door again, _only_ for the book he dropped. Nothing else. Sam lifts it, scanning for any damage. The page he bookmarked was lost, but nothing else happened to the ancient tome. _Luckily_. Tucking it under arm, Sam spins on his heel. Body telling him he should run far from Dean’s room.

He lingers, though. Stuck because of some light ruffling from the other side of the door. Curiosity betrays him, and he leans closer. Listens more attentively.

Dean chuckles, “Come on, let me play with it.”

“No Dean,” Cas says, “you wouldn’t know how to handle it. Just… let me do all the work.”

Shame rushes down his back like cold water, every nerve in his body raw and sparking. He sprints through the hallway at a record pace. No set destination in mind. Perhaps he’ll snag an extra set of keys for one of the many cars sitting in the garage and drive. Drive until the tank empties and start a new life, with a new name. He’s always liked Jared for some reason.

Jared Peterman. Normal guy, with a normal past and family. Tragically he has no siblings, not even a brother that any angels can romantically entangle with. _Tragic_.

“Sam?” He trips over his feet, almost steamrolling over Jack. The younger boy steps aside, avoiding his large frame. “Sam, what’s the matter? Is there an emergency?”

Not a real one. Years of memories being torn to shreds and restructured in a more accurate understanding would mean little in Jack’s opinion. But for Sam… it’s shaken his worldview. Up there with all the others. Angels being real, Chuck being God, and now Dean and Cas fucking.

“No, it’s not –“ Sam winces, pain scratching at his skull. He rubs his temple, “I, I’m not feeling too good. Think I need to lie down…”

“Oh…” Jack holds up his hand, brows furrowed, “do you want me to –“

“No!” He jumps, Sam’s voice echoing in the hallway. “No, no you don’t…” Sam continues, softer, “that’s not necessary.” Tempting? Sure. If he asked, Jack could definitely wipe his memory of the discovery. Leaving him in blissful ignorance for when Dean and Cas _actually_ reveal their new relationship in a manner that _won’t_ scar Sam for the remainder of his life. But for such a clean slate, he’d be ratting them out to Jack. And while the boy might think of them as his dads, he’s not sure how he’ll explain them being his… _dads_. “I think some sleep might do me some good… or I’ll take a painkiller, or ten.”

Jack worries his bottom lip, not sold on Sam’s excuse. Still, he relents. Hand resting at his side. “If you say.” He glances behind, frown deepening. “Hey… have you seen Dean?”

“Dean?” Sam panics, stiffening. “No, why would I have seen Dean, I don’t think I’ve seen him at all. Ever. Never seen him.” Coughing, he hides behind his bangs. Avoiding Jack’s searching expression. “Why are you looking for him anyway?”

“I have a question,” he says, “I thought he’d be helpful in answering.”

“Okay. But, if I can’t find him he’s probably busy,” Sam tells Jack, “maybe he’s in the middle of something and – uh… doesn’t want to be disturbed?”

Jack huffs, “It’s kind of important, and I haven’t found him in his usual places… the garage, the kitchen…” His face brightens, though, despite Sam’s dismissal. “I haven’t tried his room though!”

“Jack, wait -!”

“Thanks Sam!”

He disappears around the corner, bounding down the hallways. Sam watches leave, too weak he cannot prevent the unfortunate series of events and conversations that will entail. Instead Sam shuffles towards his room. Hopefully, when he wakes up, the storm will pass.

_Hopefully_.

* * *

Jack barges in without knocking, Dean’s grip on the sword faltering. “Holy hell, Jack,” Dean yells, catching it before the blade sliced through his foot. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“Sorry, sorry…” he says, wincing, “I wasn’t sure you’d be in here.” Glancing between him and Cas, the latter lounging on Dean’s bed. Feet crossed at the ankles, perfectly relaxed while Dean swung the relic around like a toy and _not_ the heavenly prototype of the standard angel’s weapon with an enriched history that Cas spent the last three hours explaining to him.

“Jack,” Cas speaks now, “did you need something?”

“I… I wanted to ask Dean a question.”

Dean hands the sword off, Cas accepting it. Laying it on the other side of him. “Ask away.”

Jack wrings his hands, nerves making themselves known. “Okay,” he says, pacing at the entrance of Dean’s room. “So, I was in town earlier, and I ran into this guy. We started talking and, well… I think I like him.”

“That’s good!” Dean nods, smiling. Faltering as Jack’s smile doesn’t mirror his own. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know what to do next!” Jack throws his hands in the air, “What should I do?”

Snorting, Dean closes the distance and wraps an arm around Jack. Guides him into the hallway, “Listen, talking to boys is real simple.”

“It is?”

“Yeah,” he says, “what you need to do is hang out with him, maybe get him talking about something he likes. That he’s interested in. Show interest, even if it’s fake. And, then, at the right time, ask if he wants to make out.”

Jack arches a brow, “That’s all?”

“Well, I mean if he says no then you’ll have to live through an awkward few minutes,” Dean admits, squeezing Jack’s shoulder. “But I doubt that’ll happen. I’m sure he likes you as much as you like him. So go and make plans, already.”

“I will!” Jack yells, dashing off, “thanks!”

Dean waits for the younger boy to disappear, closing the door as he re-enters his room. Locking it for extra measure. When he turns, Dean notices the critical stare from Cas. “What?”

“That’s your advice?”

“It’s good advice!”

“When has it ever worked for you?”

He grins, swaggering towards Cas. Leaning close, their noses brush. “Hey, Cas, d’you wanna…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked 😀 Let me know by dropping a kudos/comment!


	6. Bi Bi Bi - Generations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's another one that I'm like REALLY proud of. Mainly because of how I took this prompt and spun it. (Although it is most certainly NOT crack...)
> 
> #6 is Bi Bi Bi, and look below to see what I'm talking about.
> 
> Enjoy!

_1957_

Henry asks him to detail his encounter, again. “I – I didn’t have my, uh… my pen.” He shakes it, awkwardly chuckling.

The other man – Paul – whistles a sad note at having to repeat his story but does so anyway. “Like I said, I was minding my business – taking a walk through the park…”

Nodding, Henry scribbles over the little notepad what he should have been writing from the start. If he hadn’t been distracted. By disheveled hair, five o’clock shadows, blue eyes and broad shoulders under a too-tight t-shirt. Paul describes his encounter with the shifter in full detail. Henry barely collects enough information for his investigation. When their meeting ends, Paul ushering him out the door, Henry almost cries in relief. Still, there’s a routine to this. Rules he, a Men of Letters, must follow.

“If you see anything else,” Henry says, handing Paul a business card, “you can reach me, here.”

Not really. Henry rarely spends time in the Bunker, unlike his fellow colleagues who skulk around like the very ghosts they study. They’d more than likely answer the phone. Why he told Paul that, he cannot explain. Neither the rush Henry felt when Paul grabbed the card, and for a few scant seconds, they both held it. Thumbs inches apart from one another. Until Henry let go, stepping past the threshold and breathing deep from clean air not tainted by aftershave and loose cigarettes. Confusion flies from his mind like the birds overhead in the sky. Cawing while he walked the short distance from Paul’s trailer towards his car.

That’s all he would need. A simple trek would send those queer thoughts heavenward, never to bother him again. Paul’s face stayed with him, though, when he entered the car. How his lips moved when asking simple questions, like if he wanted a drink. His fingers on the bottle while he poured, somehow maintaining eye contact with him. That damned business card.

Henry tightens his grip on the steering wheel, shuddering as it all replays in his mind, frame by frame through his mental projector.

Luckily, pinned on the rearview, was a picture of his beloved. Millie. Smiling like a ray of sunshine, parting those awful clouds. She gives him strength, and with one final push, shoves those thoughts far away. Paul’s strong fingers were replaced with her delicate ones, and the only lip he thinks about is her soft, pink ones. Her face is all he ever needs. With Millie, he can overpower any temptation.

“And that’s normal,” he mutters, starting the engine, “we all have temptations… as long as I never give in.”

On the roads, it’s hard. But that’s why, wherever he goes, he carries a piece of Millie with him. To make it easy.

_1989_

John wakes up with a sharp knife cleaving his head in twain, and a dull ache low near his stomach. Gurgling, he rubs a tired hand through his hair. Blocks intrusive sun rays with a calloused paw, mumbling all the while about extinguishing the sun.

“Yeah,” someone chuckles nearby, sheets rustling as he moves. A heavy arm wraps around him. “The sun’s a fuckin’ _loser_.”

Despite the monster-sized hangover he nurses, John sprung from the bed. “What the –“ He bites hard on his tongue, enough to draw blood, as he fully takes in the bed’s other occupant. Bronzed skin, chestnut hair fanning out behind him on the pillow. Bloodshot, blue eyes squinting up at him. Chest bare, the rest thankfully hidden under the blanket. But judging by his own state, and that of the room with clothes strung about, he saw enough. Blissfully forgotten, lost when he sobered.

“Hey,” the stranger drawls, sitting. Watching John with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong?”

He twitches, telegraphing his next moves with blaring sirens. John barks a quick order, “No!” in time, startling the other back into bed.

“What?”

“No,” he continues, growling. Reaching for a pair of pants, one leg inside. “No, you… you stay there –“

“What?” he says again, angrier, “John, what the hell is going –“

“No!” he roars, whipping around. Jeans still unbuttoned, unzippered. “Do _not_ address me, you –“ Like a gunshot, he hurls the insult and watches all the life drain from the other man. Paler than earlier, his lips thin. “I am going to get dressed,” John says, shoulders quaking with rage. At the stranger. At himself. At what happened last night. “And I will leave. _You_ will wait exactly ten minutes. Not nine, not eleven – _ten_. After that you can do whatever the hell you want as long as we never see each other again. Because if we do I…” John advances, snagging his button down on the way. Strangles the fabric in his grip. “I promise you will _not_ like it.”

Learning from his earlier missteps, the stranger wordlessly nods, drawing up the covers around his waist.

“Good.”

He throws the shirt on, hastily buttoning it. Tucks it into his now-fastened pants, and finds his stained jacket. Then, he grabs his shoes. Exiting barefoot, no care to waste time putting them on. More important that he create distance between him and his mistake.

It won’t be far. First, he notices his Baby. Parked haphazardly but in one piece. The relief that ballooned in his chest bursts as his gaze trails from that towards the overhead motel sign. A familiar one. The same he saw when driving in three weeks ago, checking in while he skulked about for hunts.

John looks behind him, at the room he left. Even in a stupor, he found a room on the other side. Far from his kids, his secret safe another day. He slams a boot against his head, ringing increasing from the blow. “Stupid, stupid…” he mutters, walking, “You promised… after the last time, you promised -!”

This happened before. More than the standard one time – because every boy practiced kissing with their best friend. At least, that’s what Marty told him in the eighth grade. Once isn’t a big deal. Repeat performances and… and other lewd acts, that crosses over into queer territory. _Dangerous_ territory. For him as a man, and a father.

If only Mary… she stopped it, for a while. Woman or man, there wasn’t a person alive who stole his breath quite like her. Who made his heart skip a beat in a _normal_ way. When she died, normality went with her.

He hoped at least some of it would stay. But with enough drink, anything is possible.

Standing outside his door, shifting on his feet, John promises to be better. Resist falling into old habits, into men’s arms. Otherwise, one day, he won’t be as lucky. And where would his boys be…

“Whatever,” he sighs, opening the door, “women’re better anyway.”

John expected, with how low the sun was, he’d find a quiet room. Two children fast asleep, and a table John can sit at and consider his life choices. The table’s there, and at least one child lay unmoving on the bed.

Dean, however, sits on the edge of his bed. Bowl of cereal on his lap, he barely flinched at John’s entrance. Mesmerized by the television screen.

Creeping forward, he curiously spies on the cartoon Dean watches. He recognizes the explosions and music, glad his son enjoyed a perfect boys’ show like G.I. Joe. Still, freaked by his morning, John sees the cartoon with new eyes. Were the men on the show always that jacked? Abnormally so? And men don’t hug, why are they? John only hugged his fellow soldiers for select reasons, and those nights ended in hushed whispers and regret.

He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

“Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

“You won’t ever watch that show again, you hear me?” he says, sternly wagging his finger. “Do you hear me?”

Dean whines, kicking his legs. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

“Because,” he splutters, cheeks flushed, “because, you don’t want people to think you’re a _fairy_ , do you?” His oldest frowns, clearly confused. Unused to the term. John, reticent, turns from him. “Besides, you’re too old for cartoons anyway. _Men_ don’t watch cartoons.” At Dean’s silence, John heads for the bathroom. “Wake Sammy, tell him we’re leaving –“

“What?”

“Your things better be packed by the time I finish showering.” He shuts the door, blocking any response.

Hidden from his kids, John bleeds every ounce of tension from his body. Shoes drop, booming in the small space. Shuffling further, John braces himself against the sink. Stares at his reflection, hating every sinful inch. “Never again,” he whispers, “you’re _stronger_ than your mistakes.”

_2020_

Dean watches his reflection mouth the words, easy without sound. But when he _tries_ voicing those thoughts, his voice crackles and cuts out. Plug pulled before anything happens, too frightened by what might be.

“You can do this,” he mutters, splashing some water on his face. “You can do this.” He’s had how many years? Of figuring things out. Of lying. Of acceptance. It’s three words. There are scarier things than that, and Dean has taken them all down.

But this?

Sam knocks on the door, “Dean? You finished in there?”

“Give me a sec, Sam!” he calls, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. His brother drumming continuing behind him, testing his patience. “Seriously!”

“Come on… I want to shower!” Scoffing. Sam slams a heavy hand on the door. “Can you please come out already?”

Dean swings it open, Sam’s brows jumping in surprise. “Fine!” he shouts, flailing, “I’m _bisexual_. Are you happy?”

Sam scowls, looking unimpressed. “Is that all?”

“…Yeah?”

“Good,” Sam says, offering a tiny smile. Only momentarily, as in the next second it flattens into a frown. “Now, if you're done, can you please exit the bathroom so I can wash the witch gunk from my hair?”

“Sure, sure…” Dean stumbles out, Sam rushing in after. Chest lighter, as was his mood. He giggles from the absurdity of it all, raking shaking fingers through his hair. “I’m bisexual,” he repeats, “I’m bi – I’m bi!”

A hurricane of thoughts whip through is mind. Many of them a variation of what he’s already announced. In the eye of that storm, however, is a crystal-clear lake of _blue_. A comfort, that makes his heart swell and feel safe. The same color as a very, important person’s eyes.

Dean dials his number, holding the phone to his ear. He answers on the third ring, Dean speaking over him. “Hey, Cas! I – I have something to tell you. I’m –“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo? What'cha think? Always love to hear what you say 😁 and what you loved 😉


	7. Cheeseburgers - Five Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! #7 is Cheeseburgers, and this one I'll admit to being a tad gross. But it's crack, so if it's not just a teensy bit gross than what's the point lol?
> 
> Bon Appetit!

Jack places the buns on top, smiling at his finished work. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he slowly releases the breath he held. Nerves from his first attempts at cooking unraveling now that the task was completed. He pulls on the strings of the apron, letting the fabric pool at his feet. Grabbing the tray, Jack spins on his heel.

Dean’s gaze darts to the side. A show at looking distracted, even though Jack felt the weight of his stare on him throughout the entire process. Overheard the quiet arguments between him and Cas, as the latter restrained him from stepping in. Serving tips or even taking the reigns from him. Breaking his promise of letting Jack cook dinner for the night.

Cas’s iron grip eases around Dean’s wrist, finally letting go. “You’re done, Jack?”

“Yes!” he says, placing the burgers down. Alongside the fries, onion rings, and salad that were already set. “I’m all done.”

Dean arches a brow, leaning forward, “You turn off the –“

“The stovetop is off, Dean,” Cas forces him into his seat, hand heavy on his shoulder. “You asked that already.”

“But –“

“This all looks really nice, Jack,” Sam talks over Dean, grabbing a burger, “I bet it’ll taste good, too!”

Jack takes his own burger, smiling. “I hope so. I only used the best ingredients.” After Dean signed off on tonight’s venture, Jack blinked out of the Bunker and around the world. Japan for the freshest slices of Wagyu Beef. Tomatoes, lettuce and onions fresh from the farm. A jar of pickles at the little deli in town, where the cashier always gave him a free candy bar because Jack reminds him of his grandson. And French cheese, aged to perfection.

While Cas and Sam happily tear into their meals, Jack’s fiercest critic inspects his cooking. His nose hovers near the meat, their gaze meeting mid sniff.

Jack pinches his brows the way Sam showed him, bottom lip jutting out in a perfect pout.

Dean sighs, then joins the others.

It’s a pretty standard meal after that. Conversation flowed easily, Sam dominating most of it with details of a case he’s been researching. Cas interjecting at certain lulls, asking questions that spurred another round of info dump from Sam. While explaining the subtle clues the monster left when disposing its victims, Dean needles Cas’s side. Murmurs, “Why do you keep setting him off like this?”

“The longer he talks, there’s less chance of anyone asking how _we_ spent our day.”

Judging by his blush, Jack surmises his thoughts. At least it answered why Dean so readily handed his apron – his sacred garb – after all of Jack’s pleading proved fruitless.

Soon, though, dinner ends. Barely anything left on their plates save a few uneaten fries and crumbs. Jack stirs what little remains of his ketchup with a potato nub, smearing stick figures there like it were cave walls.

“Y’know,” Dean breaks the silence, propped up against Cas’s body, “I gotta say… I had my doubts, but you did a great job with dinner.”

He stubs the fry in the saucy ashtray, grinning. Eyes lit gold from excitement. “Really?”

Nodding, Dean slaps the table. “Maybe you can cook some other night,” he suggests, standing, “or we can cook together.”

“I’d love that, Dean, truly –“

_Grrggl_

Sam winces, head bowed as the noise roars in the kitchen. All eyes turn to him, Cas studying the younger Winchester. “Sam?” he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yep!” he groans, voice pitched considerably higher while another rumble shakes his stomach. Sam lays a hand flat on his stomach, fingers digging into his shirt. “Yeah, I… it’s probably nothing. Maybe some bad –“ He collapses onto the table with a shout, the third wave slamming against his defenses. “No,” Sam admits, “no, I’m feeling like shit, you guys.”

“Sammy!” Dean yelps, rushing over. Before he can round the table, his stomach attacks. Stumbling, he clutches the table with a trembling hand. Wobbly knees bent, stare focused on the floor. “Oh, God,” he groans, “it feels like the alien from Alien is digging around in there!”

Flanked by deteriorating Winchesters, Jack cannot concentrate. When he feels a hand on his shoulder, Jack jumps.

It’s only Cas. “What –“

“Jack,” he starts, “what did you serve us?”

He glances at the plates, understanding dawning on him. “I… it can’t be my burgers.”

“What else could it be then?”

Jack can’t answer that. Meaning it’s exactly as Cas suspects. “But it shouldn’t be the burgers,” he says, yelling over Sam and Dean. Brothers competing over who can wail the loudest. “I followed the instructions _exactly_ as Dean wrote them!”

“Then what about the ingredients,” Cas asks, “were they spoiled? Expired?”

“It can't be. They were all _top_ quality.” Jack rises, helping Sam sit properly. Cas tends to Dean, the other’s head resting on Cas’s lap. “I made sure of it. Researched it, too! The wagyu beef, farm fresh vegetables, moldy cheese –“

“Mold?” Cas parrots, gaping at Jack, “You used _moldy_ cheese?”

“…Was I not supposed to?”

Dean seizes, curling into a ball while he retches. Dinner returning with vengeance, spilling across Cas’s shoes. Cas glares at Jack, jaw tensing while Dean gasps for breath. “No,” he finally says, “mold and humans shouldn’t mix.”

“But in France –“

“We’re not in France, Jack!” Cas snaps, gently petting Dean while he absentmindedly mutters. Dizzy from the pain, “How moldy was the cheese you served?”

Jack bites his lip, “…Not that moldy…”

“At least there’s that –“

“So I made it moldier!” Jack braces for the inevitable fury, but it doesn’t come. Saved because Dean spluttered and found more within himself to give. He vomits again, this time staining Cas’s pants with it _and_ the tears that freely cascade down his face.

Sam, meanwhile, stayed deathly still throughout the whole affair. Shivers racking his body, Jack losing his hold a few times. Fighting for control from the food poisoning. He loses and suffers greatly for it. “Oh no,” Sam hisses, “I – I can’t –“

“Sam,” Jack asks, “what’s –“

He shits himself. Sam Winchester shits his pants at the kitchen table, while Jack has his hands around the other man’s waist. There’s nothing to see, _thankfully_ , but in the next breath he can _smell_ the horrible mess caused by his cooking. And he knows.

They’ll never let him cook _again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the service! Feel free to drop a kudos/comment below


	8. Deanmom - Darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with the soft and serious drabbles in a crack-fest...
> 
> #8 is Deanmom... have at it!

They’ve parked for a few minutes now, except none of them left Baby yet. Sam, in the driver’s seat, kept a slack grip on the wheel while his shoulders fell and rose in slow waves. Cas, sagged against the passenger side door since stumbling inside, barely moved. Dean knowing he’s awake only because their eyes met across the bench. His friend breaking the contest every now and then as Cas's focus flitted between Dean and the younger man currently snoozing, drooling on his shoulder.

Jack fell asleep halfway through Colorado, lulled by the crappy podcast Sam played. “Driver picks the music,” he reminded despite repeated protests from Dean that podcasts _don’t count_. Angry for all of three minutes until the deep scratch along his leg reasserted itself. Unhealed, because Jack’s power was sealed while outside the Bunker and he wouldn’t ask Cas to waste any of his mojo for this. Unsure how much his angel has left these days…

Snuffling draws his thoughts from that dangerous path, Jack curling further into his side. Mumbling, dreaming something that curls his lips and makes his fingers twitch. Dean watches Jack’s hand near his knee, cheeks straining from a wide grin.

When he looks up, Cas taps at his phone. _Snap_!

“Cas!” he hisses, “What did I tell you?”

He shrugs, taking another picture. “I never have enough of you two,” he explains, pocketing his phone. Cas glances at Sam, his brother’s head slowly descending. An asteroid on collision course with the wheel. “We should get to bed.”

“Okay _mom_.”

“I’m not your mom, Dean,” Cas sighs, exasperation tinged with fondness, “I’m not anyone’s.”

Dean snorts, shifting. “Sure you’re not…” He lifts a hand, gently shaking Jack awake. “Hey,” he whispers, “hey buddy, we’re home. Jack? Can you hear me?”

One bleary eye blinks open, and then another. “Hmm?” he mumbles, tongue numb and heavy. “Wha…?”

“We’re back at the Bunker, Jack,” Dean tells him, “you can go sleep on your _actual_ bed.”

Jack yawns, stretching. Nearly punching Dean with a blind fist. “Okay, Deanmom… thanks.”

He stills, a chill racing down his spine at Jack’s misstep. Subtly peeking at the front bench, Dean finds both Cas and Sam _alert_. Sam’s face frozen in a manic smile, brows arched as he enjoyed the tender moment. Meanwhile Cas radiates an awed smugness that seems natural. Jack hadn’t noticed anything wrong with what he said, and in true teenager fashion exits the car arbruptly. Ignorant of the grenade he left in Dean’s lap.

“Deanmom…” Sam snickers, drawing the pin first.

Dean glares, dimples flashing at him from the rearview. “Zip it –“

“That was so cute,” he continued, cooing, twirling the keys on his finger, “I think I know what we can finally embroider your apron with…”

“Sam,” Dean leans forward, biting on the yelp as his wound reasserts itself. “I swear, you keep this up you will find Chuck the least of your worries.”

From the sheen of his eyes, Dean senses more jokes coming. But then Cas intervenes, laying a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Glowers with a tired seriousness, “Sam… don’t provoke him. Go to bed.”

“Sheesh,” Sam rolls his eyes, opening the driver-side door, “ _fine_.” He dips his head back in, smirking at Dean. “I’ll save it for morning.”

“Sam!”

His scream rattles the car, containing it. Sam, moving fast for someone as exhausted as he claimed to be, misses it.

Deflating, Dean turns his ire towards Cas. The other man already out, walking around the car. He goes for the only door still closed, kneeling so he and Dean were at eye level. Dean tries looking anywhere else but fails like every time before. Drawn in by a strange gravity. “What?” he huffs, “you gonna laugh, too?”

“On the contrary,” Cas says, hand uncurled in front of him. Open and _waiting_. “I’ve come to offer my services.”

Dean grimaces, skin itching where its been torn open. “Cas, like I said –“

“I know you turned that down, Dean,” he continues, “I’m just gonna help you to your room.”

“…Really?”

“Of course.” His eyes crinkle around the edges, sparks of happiness glimmering on those peaceful waves. “That’s the job of the dad, isn’t it? To support the mom?”

“You were sitting on that this whole time, weren’t you?”

“A variation of it,” Cas admits, head bowed in an attempt at bashfulness. “Only fitting I get _one_ swipe, don’t you think.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Dean finds the backseat suddenly blistering, and uncomfortable. Heat rising the longer Cas keeps his hand steady, held out for Dean to take. “Kinda presumptive, don’t you think? Calling yourself dad?”

“I am Jack’s father.”

“And apparently, I’m his mother.” Dean wets his lips, limbs weighed by more than sleepiness. “Are you okay with that? Me being the… mom, to your dad?”

Cas smiles, pearly whites cutting through any restraint and bringing fresh air into Dean’s lungs. “I’m okay with that. As long as you and I… we’re together. That’s all I ever want.”

He lays his hand over Cas’s, their fingers tangling together. They’ve always fit, but Dean finds himself considering this fact in a new light. That denying it, pushing this off… was pointless. Tiring, like a bad hunt. Beaten, bloody, desperate for safety. For Dean, that’s been Baby. The Bunker. His family. And Cas. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, too.”

Dragged forward, Cas wraps Dean’s arm over his shoulders. “Good to know.”

Walking beside Cas is… it’s watching the sun rise out of the darkness. Golden rays warming his face. He chuckles, an idea floating by like a dandelion on the breeze. “Hey, Cas,” he says, “maybe… do you want to…”

_Whoosh_

They slow, both hearing the sound. Cas turns them around, frowning at their intruder. “Billie,” he says, “what are you doing here?”

Billie stares at Dean in a strange way. Through him, like she sees something below the surface Dean doesn’t show. That, along with her grip on the scythe, strike Dean oddly. Unnerve him. He never saw her do either of those things.

“Castiel,” she says, and Dean is confident this isn’t the Reaper. Voice too shrill and sickly. “I’ve come for what I’m _owed_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Drop a kudos/comment below!
> 
> 💖ALSO I've updated my fic, i'd like to teach the world to sing, which you can find by looking through my author page 💖
> 
> 💖 Read the latest chapter OR, if you haven't started, do so today while we wait for today's episode!!! 💖


	9. Found a New Room in the Bunker - Steam Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - Found a New Room in the Bunker
> 
> Prepare for things to get a little... steamy 😉

Dean whistles, jaunty tune echoing down the halls in one of the deepest areas of the Bunker. Backtracked by his bare footfalls, like a metronome keeping pace with the music. He stops fiddling with the one towel over his shoulders, instead grabbing the end of his second towel and securing it tighter around his waist. Not that it’d matter, if it fell now. No one would see where he was going.

They found this room only recently. Well, Sam did. Dean was distracted by some old photographs that were wedged between an old book. Of past Lettermen cuddled in the library, arm in arm. But then Sam called to him, asking for his opinion. The photos were reverently set aside, Dean shuffling towards his brother. Answering his question.

Sam discovered the room, but Dean knew what it was.

“I gotta say,” Dean sighed, adding a few more rocks onto the pile, “I don’t know how we survived so long without this.”

Sam nodded, melting in his seat. Stripped of most their clothes, save underwear, the brothers enjoyed a languid respite. Delivered through a formerly defunct, still-working steam room.

Since then, they’ve enjoyed it together, and separately. Whenever a soak was needed. Today Dean claimed dibs for a little alone time, Baby’s repairs fraying already thin patience. He grunted out his demands, Sam agreeing with no problem. Eileen was visiting soon, anyway. The quicker he disappeared, the better.

With one quick pitstop, Dean left his bedroom for the steam. Steam and _solitude_.

“Dean,” Cas says, standing by the entrance with his robe pulled tight, “have you come for some steam time?”

Dean’s gaze flits across the _visible_ , tan expanse of Cas’s chest, warmer already without aid. “I did,” he says, “and I’m guessing you had the same idea?”

“Guilty.”

He hums, shifting on his feet. A question pops into mind, about how Cas heard about the steam room in the first place, that Dean immediately squashes. It was obvious Sam told him. Dean surely had not, keeping it close to avoid any scene like _this_ happening. A test of his self-control and sanity. “Okay,” he nods, throat scratchy and dry, “do you… want to open the door?”

Cas nods, doing as asked.

Dean trails behind Cas, choosing a spot on the bench far from the coal pit. Cas, meanwhile, sets himself directly in front of it. Grabs the box of matches nearby and strikes one, throwing it under the rocks. Waiting, Cas drums his fingers along the tiny box. “What brought you here today?”

“Car troubles. You?”

“I think I downloaded a virus.”

Groaning, Dean rubs his temples. “I thought I told you _not_ to click those links.”

“I didn’t,” Cas tells him, “not intentionally. My hand slipped during my… _viewing_.” He watches the rocks warm, fire crackling in his silence. Dean doesn’t need an explanation for _that_ , an unspoken vow of never discussing videos such as those with each other. “And it must have hit one of the pop-up windows,” Cas lamely explains, placing the box down.

“You always gotta watch your hands,” Dean says, tracking how Cas’s swing at his sides while walking, and then reaching for the faucet handle. Turning it, letting water drain into a waiting bucket. Halfway filled, Cas stops the flow. He carries it back, grabbing for a ladle that hangs on the wall above the rock pile. “So,” he continues, watching Cas scoop water with the tool, “did this… _interruption_ happen before or after…”

The stream splashes haphazardly on the hot rocks, droplets flying with extreme force. “Before.”

“Ah…”

Dean searches for a safer conversation point. While he debates whether discussing Netflix or talking about Jack would help alleviate the pressure on his lower half, Cas derails any chance at reframing the conversation.

He unties the robe, shrugging it off. The terrycloth pools at his feet, already forgotten as Cas relaxes onto the bench. Unencumbered, and fully nude.

“Cas,” Dean yelps, voice pitched a few notches higher. His body tenses, then curls in a poor attempt of covering himself. “What are you doing?”

“I’m using the sauna.”

_Obviously_. “Obviously!” he says, struggling with maintaining eye contact. “But where’s your towel?”

Cas tilts his head, squinting. “I don’t have one,” he says, slowly. Like speaking with a child. “I’ve never used them. In fact, towels aren’t a necessity when using saunas.”

“According to who?”

“Many people who _use_ saunas.” Cas’s eyes flicker, dangerously, like the fire heating the room. Studying him. “You don’t have a problem with my body, do you?”

Clearly he doesn’t. Especially with how Cas stretches his legs, spreading out and taking more space for himself. Sitting on the edge of the bench, his cock and balls freely hang. And, like the bastard he is, Cas scratches the crown of hairs surrounding them. “It’s…” Dean mumbles, cheeks red and sweat pouring off him. There are many words he can use; Dean sifts through them all, looking for one that will save face. “Surprising, s’all.” He coughs, taking the towel from his neck and laying it across his lap. “Always bundled up, jackets over jackets… wouldn’t expect this from you. This… ease.”

Cas sighs, head thrown back. Displaying a shiny neck that _begs_ for attention. “That is armor, Dean,” he explains, “I don’t wear it all the time. Not when I’m off the battlefield. Not when I’m… _comfortable_.”

“Oh?”

“Are you,” he asks, brow arched, “comfortable, that is? Are you?” Cas remains stoic as he rolls his head around, meeting Dean’s gaze again. Steals his breath. Challenges him without ever voicing it.

Dean forfeits instantaneously.

Standing, Dean tears the towels off his body and joins Cas. Then, striding forward the three, necessary, large steps, he drags Cas’s face in for a kiss. When they break, and their foreheads stay pressed together, Dean answers. “I’m very comfortable.”

“I can see,” Cas chuckles, thumb brushing Dean’s hip. “But would you be comfortable… on your knees?”

Dean sinks onto Cas’s forgotten robe, grinning. “With you, baby… I’d be comfortable anywhere.”

* * *

Sam hisses out a sharp breath, shuffling towards the steam room. Swaying, haunted by a bad mood that persists despite his best efforts. Disappointment is a hard curse to lift. He hopes, though, that some steam can ease the tension in his neck and shoulders from Eileen cancelling on him.

“Dean,” he knocks on the door, slowly opening it. Talking over the squeaking hinges. “Dean, I hope you don’t mind… thought I’d join – _oh my God_!”

Cas sees him first, facing the door. Dean has a harder time, craning his head around. Position atop Cas’s lap making his reaction delayed and difficult.

“Sammy,” Dean growls, soaked with set. Skin flushed red and _raw_. “Sam, what – get… get _out_!”

He would love that. Except his sandals were glued there, his hand frozen on the doorknob despite the intense heat. All higher-level functions short-circuiting from the sight of his brother and his best friend, a few short phrases pinging around his head like a screensaver. Fighting for escape. One does. And when Sam thinks back on this moment, it’s the cherry on top of the sundae of his regrets.

“Seriously?” he winces, scowling, “communal space, guys. This isn’t a bath house!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You like? Drop a kudos/comment down below!


	10. PurGAYtory - Pass Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than usual but that's because I had to write this today lol
> 
> Today's prompt - Day 10: PurGAYtory
> 
> Enjoy!

Sam added the last ingredient to the cauldron, waving away green smoke that billowed out from the lip. He coughed, eyes watering as they strung from the smell. Fermented ghoul fangs reeked fiercely, even when condensed into a powder. But with them, Sam can conjure the Seeing Eye spell catalogued in Rowena’s spell book. Once the mist fades, he drags it from the stovetop and onto the kitchen island. He grabs the bushel of sage and one, white chrysanthemum, tossing them inside the still-boiling concoction. Green fades into purple, and the potion is complete.

At least Sam hopes. Otherwise Dean and Cas will be in seriously trouble.

They finished their hunt earlier, tying up a local pawn shop owner who used her collection of cursed objects for revenge. Only, as they locked each item in its own box, one slipped from Sam’s hand. And in an uncanny coincidence, Dean and Cas reached for it together. Touching the oblong piece of driftwood at the same time. Then, before Sam could blink, both men disappeared.

“I don’t know,” the owner told Sam, struggling against her restraints, “I never got around to using that one yet. But the guy who brought it in, he said that it sends the right people where they belong…”

Sam left her there, speeding back towards the Bunker. At least at home, he’ll be better equipped to find them.

His hand hovers over the cauldron, muttering an incantation while thinking about his brother and best friend. Focusing on their faces despite his overwhelming worry, knowing if his mind slips for even a second, the spell won’t work.

Near the end of the spell, his nerves get the better of him. Sam’s tongue trips and ties around an ‘l’, the image of the two men in his head blinking for a second while he recovered. The cauldron, glowing brightly, dimmed from his error. “No, no…” Sam says, squeezing the rim, “come on, I was so close… can’t you give me something?”

In response, the potion splutters and signals with smoke. Letters floating into the air above, spelling a location. P… U… R…

_Purgatory_.

There’s a more desperate edge to his actions, now that he knows where they are. Trapped, defenseless in a land of monsters and bleakness. Probably fighting off a pack of vamps, or worse… _leviathan_.

More sage and another chrysanthemum go into the brew. He rattles off the Latin at record speed, perfectly repeating Rowena’s spell. Dean and Cas’s faces fully formed in his mind; they never disappear. After he utters the last syllable, the room blurs. Sam blinded by a bright flash of light. As the room sharpens around him, he sees a swirling hole cut into the space near the door. Reminiscent of tears through the fabric of reality.

Sam bounds towards it, hurrying. Moving closer, Sam can see bodies moving within the circle. Many of them, like a mob. Writhing, frenzied – in the midst of an attack on the two figures hemmed at the center. He peers into the middle of the mob hoping that Dean and Cas, if those shapes were them, hold their own.

They most certainly do.

As the scene fully presents itself, Sam’s anxiety plummets and crashes into the Earth. Replaced instead by irritation, anger exploding like a volcano when he understands where the other men are.

Dean spins his shirt high above him, dancing between two oil-slick, bare-chested men. A rainbow flag clutched tight in his other hand. He grinds forward, head thrown back in laughter allowing for the man on his back a chance at laving Dean’s collarbone.

Watching from nearby, Cas looks as disheveled as Dean. Instead of the carefree enjoyment, however, Cas stares headily at Sam’s brother. One hand dipping below his waistband while someone slips him a wad of bills. Whispers in his ear, stranger’s gaze also affixed to Dean.

Cas whistles, catching Dean’s attention. Nodding at the new man, Dean grinds his ass one last time for the man kissing him and then slips out. Hips wiggling, Dean backs onto the man who paid Cas. Tossing his shirt into the crowd, he runs fingers through this new man’s hair as they begin dancing. Their audience whistles and cheers, feeding on his antics. Dean doing the same with their reactions. He looks at Cas, winking at him. Tongue peeking out past his lips for a quick swipe. Cas jerks faster.

Sam turns from this scene, finding the word from earlier humming neon on a deep, dark purple wall. _Purgatory_.

“Fucking hell,” Sam growls, kneading at the crease of his brows, “where they belong… the least they could’ve done was call!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You like? Let me know by dropping a kudos and a comment below!!


	11. American Pie - As Seen on TV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this one... I think y'all are really gonna like. Keeping up with the spirit of crack and shenanigans with this one! Day 11... American Pie
> 
> Enjoy

Cas worries over how he will broach the subject he completely misses when Sam and Dean arrive. Brothers striding through the front door, bickering. Arguing over their latest hunt, or maybe a passing distraction. Dean picking at it like a nasty scab until the two sniped at each other in a bloody mess. He barely followed their voices, still wrapping over the scene he happened upon in the kitchen hours ago. Mortified. At both what he saw _and_ being the one to tell Dean.

He won’t be happy.

Dean claps him on the shoulder startling him from his thoughts. “Cas, man,” he says, frowning. Studying his expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen _something_ all right…” As Dean’s brows furrowed together, Cas sighed. Gestures towards the nearby chairs. “There's things we need to discuss.”

Sam easily sinks into the seat, frowning. Listening for what Cas will say. Dean is a different issue. He hovers near the chair, looking like he might sit than aborting the action all together. Nerves clearly on display, hands wringing themselves into an angry, blotchy redness. “You’re finally hitting the trails, then,” he surmises, ruefully chuckling. Gaze dropped, avoiding Cas’s eyes. “Well… I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

Cas blinks at him. “What?”

“Just… thanks, I guess, for sticking around as long as you did,” he shrugs, lips quivering in a phony smile, “I… you probably didn’t have to, but –“

“Dean, what are you talking about?”

Dean glances at him, “This… isn’t you giving us the talk? The… the ‘I’ve found something better and am going to pursue it’ talk?”

“What? No,” he says, reaching out and squeezing Dean’s clasped hands. “Never, Dean I… I’m not going anywhere. Except, maybe therapy… or to the woods, so I can bang my head against a tree for a few hours.” They concernedly stare, drawing a tired sigh from Cas. “Sit down, Dean, so I can explain myself.”

While Dean follows Cas’s command, Sam leans on the map table. “What’s going on Cas?” he asks, “Why do you want therapy or a – or a tree?”

“And where’s Jack?” Dean asks, looking about the room, “Kid was all antsy over the phone, asking when we’d be back. Figured he’d be waiting by the door.”

There lies the crux of his problems. “Jack is…” he starts, edging around the truth. Not willing to dive in yet, toeing the waters of this chilling tale. “He’s grounded for the foreseeable future.”

“Grounded?” Dean snorts, “Is that what this is about? Grounding’s normal, Cas.”

“Not for what he did.”

Sam takes this a fraction more seriously than his brother. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Cas nods. Lips pursed, keeping the floodgates tight so a drop wouldn’t escape before the appropriate time. With the brothers here, it’s best he eases the locks. Share what he stumbled into. Then they can better _understand_ his need for professional help and _appreciate_ the grip on his sanity Cas maintained as long as he did.

“Well… I was archiving some research materials that I uncovered for you, when you called the other day about your hunt,” Cas explains, fidgeting, thinking about how naïve and innocent he’d been hours earlier. “Biding my time until you returned. I’d already gone out for supplies, so you wouldn’t have to, and because I thought it was well deserved… I bought a pie –“

“A pie?” Dean perks, grinning, “There’s pie? Why are we having this here when we could be talking about it over pie!”

Cas grabs his arm as he rises, halting him. Eyes wide in fear, he shudders. “There’s no pie, Dean.”

Dean’s expression flips, seriousness masking any other emotion. “No pie?” he parrots, “What do you mean no pie?” Then, “Did Jack eat the pie? _Without_ me? …You were right to ground him for that, Cas!”

“He wasn’t…” Cas mulls it over, wincing, “Eating wouldn’t be the right term. But, yes Jack’s punishment is about the pie.”

“Cas,” Sam interrupts, “can you skip over the suspense and just… get to the point? What terrible thing could Jack have done with the pie?”

Cas sighs, letting go of Dean so both hands could scrub across his face. “I walked in, and I saw – I saw Jack… standing there. His pants were… around his ankles, and he was –“ his voice hitches, cheeks aflame. Gaze focused on the map below, where a little island was bisected by the latitudinal plane. “He had stuck his… _genitals_ … inside the pie.”

At first Cas hadn’t know that’s what he walked in on. He caught sight of Jack’s pale ass, bouncing as he bent over the island and humped. Panting, moaning, oblivious of Cas’s disturbance. His skin crawled with every grunted curse. His voice, which left in the beginning, returned with a vengeance. Cas bellowed, shaking, “Jack! What are you doing?”

Jack froze, and from the height of his shoulders and strength of his hiss, Cas realized the other boy orgasmed, too. Made obvious when Jack turned. Revealing the ruined and stained dessert, cherry filling everywhere. Dripping onto the tiled floors and staining Jack’s privates.

“I… I made him throw it out, and then clean up the kitchen and – and – and now he’s in his room until I figure out what to do,” Cas sighed, tugging on his hair. Scalp burning from the force. “What do I do?”

Sam and Dean gaped. Silence reigned. Neither looked comfortable or cognizant enough for a response. Exactly how Cas felt those few seconds when Jack spun around and his stuttered apology.

But they recovered soon. Dean’s mask broke, anger surfacing. He flew out of his seat, slamming his fists down. “He fucked my pie!” Dean cries, “Who in their right mind fucks a _pie_?”

“That’s what I asked,” Cas says, “You know what he told me? That he saw it in a movie! How _ridiculous_!”

Sam hisses with a flinch. “Actually,” he says, “there’s one movie that… in it, a kid… does _that_ with a pie.”

“There is?” he scowls, “Where would he ever come across such a film?”

Suddenly, Dean tenses. His dimples appearing for no reason. They fade a beat later, but the noticeable strangeness from Dean drew enough suspicion from Cas. Especially as he inches away from the table. “Who cares how he found it,” he says, indignation gratingly false to Cas’s ears, “let’s just punish him and make him never do this again!”

He almost slips out. _Almost_.

“Dean,” Cas calls. Dean freezes. “You wouldn’t happen to know how Jack saw this movie, would you?” Then, for good measure, he adds. “The truth, please. I’d hate to think how worse it’d be if you _lied_.”

Sighing, Dean faces Cas. Guilt practically tattooed across his cherry-red cheeks. “We… might have stumbled across it, one night in the Dean Cave,” Dean admits, rubbing his neck. “And when that scene came on I – remembering only now, really – I might have said a few things that could, if you look at it the right way, _could_ have made the kid curious enough to imitate what he saw… _possibly_.”

Cas’s anger rockets so fiercely, he becomes numb. And in that state of unfeeling, Cas decides his punishment. “Okay,” he says, fingers steepled in front of him, “thank you for your honesty.”

“Does that mean I’m off the hook?”

“Not a chance in hell.” Cas stands, closing the distance between him and Dean. “You are going to Jack’s room, where you will not only explain why what he did was bad, but you will then give him _the talk_ and apologize for egging him on.”

“And that’s it?”

“For the first part. When you’re done, let Jack know he’s grounded for a month – and so are _you_.”

“Grounded?”

“No hunts, no Internet access, no _Sam_ ,” Cas details, glaring at the younger Winchester. He nearly jumped into the fray, possibly defending Dean. Sam forfeits immediately. Bends under the pressure. Aware that in this situation there are no winners, just _survivors_. “The only things you will be _allowed_ to do are eat and research. And if I hear you complain about _that_?” Dean and he are a breath apart, personal space trampled on. “Then the consequences will be _severe_. Any questions?”

Dean struggles with words, green barely visible behind wide pupils. He licks his lips, roughly swallowing. “Can I still…” he waggles his brows suggestively, chuckling, “because I have to say… this is _really_ hot, Cas.”

“Dean!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think ? 🥧🥧🥧
> 
> Drop a kudos/comment below!


	12. Moondorsonas - The Queen's Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to Day 12 - Moondorsonas 🌙🌙🌙
> 
> Gonna be honest - this didn't turn out how I thought it sould be, and I am IMMENSLEY happy that it didn't. What's below is something I'm really proud of, and it was definitely one of those cases of letting the characters tell the story with me typing, trailing behind lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoy a glimpse into this Moondor AU

Tomorrow was very important. The culmination of an entire year, what every faithful citizen under Moondoor’s banner looked forward to. A celebration of rebirth and renewal, where they prepare for harvest days now that the last bit of chill faded from the breeze. And Castiel, as Archchancellor, was tasked with making sure this festival ran as it had for centuries. Perfectly, without a hitch.

He’d be more confident, though, if Castiel could speak with Her Royal Highness.

Being the Archchancellor, Castiel delegated many of his church’s emissaries with tasks so he could focus on the main event. The ritual where, under the heavenly glow of their goddess's full moon, Castiel invoked sacred prayers in the ancient tongue. Bathing in her mercy. Asking for protection. Bartered humble, righteous service for help making this summer’s crops more bountiful than last. As it would be his first time, Castiel spent many days and nights in training alongside fulfilling his other duties. There were never enough hours in his life for it all, so help was required.

However, not every emissary was successful. Like Brother Samandriel, whose only duty was getting the Queen’s signature on papers detailing the expenses for the Celestial Carnival. That way, when Ellen from the Treasury Chamber yelled at him for how much gold they used, he could present her with those papers and direct her towards the Queen for questioning.

Except Samandriel returned with unmarked sheets. “They wouldn’t let me speak with her,” he said, “that I didn’t _rank_ high enough.”

Castiel snorted, flicking his way through robe after robe. Thinking about which he should wear for the festival. “That doesn’t sound like the Queen,” Castiel told him, “who pulled rank on you?”

“Her Majesty’s Handmaiden.”

He stilled, strangling the silver fabric in his hands. Castiel turned, exchanging the robe for Samandriel’s papers, and set off down the hall. Temple pounding at the same pace his sandals slapped across the stone flooring. Barreling towards the Queen’s royal offices. Tan cloak billowing behind him, looking almost like wings. Their flapping scaring poor servants and maids who he happened upon in his fury.

The only one who hadn’t flinched on sight, is the same man who keeps him from completing this simple task. Talks in endless circles and wasting his time.

Queen Charlene’s Most Favored Handmaiden, Sir Dean Winchester. Like he knew Castiel was incoming, Dean waited outside her doors. Leaned on them, blocking his path. Arms folded over a leather tunic while he wore his most smug expression that Dean _knew_ Castiel hated. “His Holy Archchancellor,” Dean greeted, “What purpose is it that you would grace us with your divine presence?”

“I need to speak with Her Majesty.”

“…Why?”

Fifteen minutes later, Castiel was nowhere closer to getting past him. While he commanded the holy light of the goddess, Amara, the other man’s supernatural ability of being _annoyingly_ stubborn proved indomitable.

“Dean,” he sighs, pinching his brow, “I really don’t have time for this.”

“You never have time for _anything_.”

“I’m to meet with members of the MacLeod Court within the hour,” he explains, “and if I’m even a second late you know how unbearable the Lady Rowena will be. With her being this year’s goddess conduit, I need her at least somewhat agreeable.”

Dean scoffs, waving Castiel’s concerns off. “I can send Sam down there and distract her. You know how crazy she is about him.”

“Please don’t,” Castiel says, “we’re on a very tight schedule as it is. I can’t have her flitting off with your brother to the deepest sections of the library.” He stepped closer, toes brushing the tops of Dean’s boots. “Is Queen Charlene in such an important meeting that she cannot take five minutes to sign a few pages?”

He hopes the earnest sincerity he wove throughout his voice works. That, paired with the wide eyes and trembling lip, always worked on the other man in younger years. Getting him to roll over like a well-trained hound. While Castiel hadn’t used tricks such as those for a while, they still hold. Dean relents, dropping his façade.

“She’s just in there writing stories about characters from this story she likes,” Dean confesses, “the one her fool, Gabriel, tells.”

Irritation wounds him, stabbing sharply at his side. “Then why have you been putting me through this?”

“Because we’re finally having a conversation!” Ice rushes through Castiel’s veins at the admission, stumbling backwards. Body uncooperative for the moment. Dean carries on, ignorant of Castiel’s reaction. “Ever since you took over for that bastard Ishim as Archchancellor, I barely see you anymore outside of our bedchambers, and even then I feel…” His gaze dips, lips trembling as he stops shouting. “I feel like you aren’t _there_ with me.”

“Dean…”

“I just – I miss those days when you would skip your daily meditations, and I’d say I was doing parole. Lying to our superiors, even though I’m sure Charlie knew where I was going… and we’d meet in our special alcove. Talk and kiss and… _you know_.” Dean sighs, swiping at his nose. “I can’t remember the last time we kissed, let alone when we were _intimate_ with one another.”

There are a lot of sad truths Castiel realizes. That his newer responsibilities did weigh on him greatly, pulling Castiel at all hours. He would enter their room exhausted, barely uttering a single word before passing out atop the bed. And as Archchancellor, he could not sneak off like in the early days of their courtship. His superior hung in the sky every night – there was no lying to her. But Dean hadn’t deserved such dismissals. Being left behind, unknowingly. Underappreciated. Unvalued. There was no excuse for Castiel’s actions. Dean was important to him, as much as his faith was.

Castiel reaches forward, cupping Dean’s cheek in his hand. Forcing his gaze onto Castiel’s face. “Oh, Dean,” he sighs, “I apologize. Truly. For not making you _feel_ as important as you are to me.”

Dean offers a pitiable smile, shrugging. “S’okay,” he mutters, “I’m just… these past few weeks have been rougher than usual, because of the festival. Plus, there’s this whole conflict on the Southern Border that Charlie’s worried might grow into something larger if not dealt with I… it was just terrible timing, I guess.” He steps aside, gesturing at the door. “Go. You have things to do, better things than comforting my sorry ass.”

“You’re forgetting, Dean Winchester,” Castiel grins, following him. Loops his arms over Dean’s shoulders. “I’ve seen your ass, and there is _nothing_ you should feel sorry for. Amara did bless you mightily in that regard.”

Their foreheads touch, Dean mirroring Castiel’s expression. “She blessed me by allowing you to find your way to me.”

Castiel agrees with a kiss, pressing against him in a way they haven’t fit for a while. As they break for air, panting, Castiel hugs Dean tighter. “I promise, in the new year, I’m going to find a balance. Make more time for you, whenever I can. And if whatever I do isn’t enough – _please_ let me know. Because I will try _harder_.”

“I will,” he promises, “thank you, Cas.”

They part after one last kiss, Castiel sliding his hand down Dean’s arm until their fingers tangle. “I should really get these papers signed,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Castiel cannot leave. Not yet. An idea strikes, like lightning. Inspiration so divine he thinks his goddess bestowed it as a gift. “You know,” he starts, swinging their hands, “after the ritual, I’m supposed to be in attendance of a grand feast.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “So am I.”

“The thing is… I’m supposed to be adorned in full regalia.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand, “The hat… the necklace… gloves and _mask_.” By Dean’s glinting eyes and curling smirk, Castiel knows he understands. Yet he continues. “Actually, anyone could be dressed in that outfit and they’ll assume it’s me. Brother Samandriel owes me a favor, anyway… do you think you could delay your arrival to the feast?”

Dean nods, “I’m sure I could… but where would we go? The castle will be brimming with the usual ghosts _and_ curious guests.”

“There’s always our alcove.”

“Yeah… our alcove.”

Castiel lets go, returning to his role. “I’ll see you later tonight,” he says, “And we can rehearse for tomorrow.”

Dean cheekily bows. “Holding you to that, Holy Archchancellor.”

“You’re mistaken Dean,” Castiel finally opens the door, “it’ll be me doing the holding.” As beautiful as the papal bells, his beloved’s laughter fills the space. Trailing after him even through the closed doors. Charlene glances up from her musings, smiling. “Hello Charlie,” Castiel says, grabbing for the papers in his cloak pocket, “can I have a moment of your time…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Let me know by dropping a kudos and a comment below!


	13. Season 35 - Endless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this wasn't a frightening look into mortality and futility at all... what are you talking about? Just read the story!
> 
> Day 13 - Season 35

Dean sits on the motel bed, hunched over, waiting for his aches to stop. Back twinging even though he followed the doctor’s instructions. Did the exercises with the rubber band that left him winded before the day began. However Dean knew that, because of this cheap mattress he slept on, it’d be a bad day for his back.

He hears the bathroom door open, not turning. If he so much as _glanced_ behind him, the pain would shoot up from his lower back and totally wipe him out. Dean waits until Sam’s feet shuffle into view. “You were in there long.” He inches further upright, steady and careful, gaze trailing up his brother’s body.

Clad in only a towel, Sam’s gut overhung slightly. Seeing it never failed at brightening his day. He always droned on about how a healthy diet and exercise would keep him looking fit through his golden years. Dean never bothered with any of that nonsense. Now they both had roughly the same physique, albeit Dean was a little slimmer. A fact he mentions whenever he can. Moving past that, however, he continues and meets Sam’s sunken gaze, hazel dimmed and sullen. He asks what’s wrong.

Sam touches his graying hair, locks barely past his ears. “I found more in the drain today,” he admits, frowning, “I spent… a lot of time looking at the – the spot.”

“The spot.” Sam’s special name for the bald circle on the back of his head. “It get larger?”

“Unfortunately.”

Dean hums a pitiable note, and then smirks. Flicks a wrinkled hand at the hair over his shoulder, “Sucks you got the crappy hair genes I guess.” His hair changed over the years, too. He let it grow long, deciding that at least one of them should have the luscious locks. Sam relinquishing that title on his fortieth birthday, when the _spot_ was a tenth of the size it is today. Scowling, Sam purses his lips in response; Dean laughing louder because of it.

He can’t enjoy much these days. His favorite foods could kill him. Dean’s body breaks far easier than it had. There’s nothing on television because it’s all on the computers, and even then the options suck. And worst of all, he doesn’t cruise anymore. Not after his last time when he overheard two brats laughing at his come-ons. Sex wasn’t worth mockery. The only thing left he _can_ do is annoy Sam.

“Whatever,” Sam says, searching through his duffel, “I’ve covered most of it with what’s left. Are you gonna get ready today or am I going to interview these witnesses on my own?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming… I’m coming…” Dean rises, stumbling somewhat. Gripping the bedpost as his knees wobble and protest. Luckily, he stays upright, and Dean feels confident enough he stands without aid. Reaches for a nearby hair tie on the nightstand and makes a low pony. Then Dean grabs for the plastic, 7-day pillbox and slowly walks over to the sink.

One for his cholesterol. One for his back pain. One for the arthritis mangling his pinkie fingers and another that he cannot remember and so on and so on. It’s become routine, filling the glass, downing the handful of pills like candy and washing it down with water. He doesn’t question their purpose. As long as they keep working. And keep _him_ working.

He hears a flutter of wings near the door, and Dean turns. Castiel sits on the chair closest to it, rumpled trench coat and all. Looking far younger than the Winchesters thanks to divine interference. After Jack banished Chuck from their universe, he took his place up top and killed the handicaps placed on angel’s powers decades ago by Metatron. Castiel went with Jack, becoming his most trusted advisor. But he still deigned visits with them when he could. Filling the brothers in on angel business or helping on a case. It hurt, sometimes, when they asked if he were their nurse. Dean thinks Castiel looked more their age with the number of wrinkles across his face. But angel grace trumps pills in the fight against age.

“Dean, Sam,” he rumbles glancing between the two. In the time between Dean grabbing his pills and swallowing them, Sam threw on jeans and a plaid shirt. “Are you two in the middle of something important?”

“No,” Sam tells him, “just a ghost hunt. Why? What’s the matter?”

Castiel frowns, sneaking a quick peek at Dean. Dean appreciates the gesture, fondness swelling in his heart and easing his angina. How he loves that angel. But, clear from the other’s choices, Dean’s feelings were unreciprocated. He is quite content, though, with not voicing his desires and the time Castiel spends with them. Even if sixty percent of it was usually about business. Like this conversation looked to be.

“It appears that there was a flare up in the universal warding keeping God out,” Castiel explains, “and, according to my sources, someone is trying to help him break through.”

“Is it Amara?”

“Or Amara’s kid?”

“What about that coven of witches from Russia – the ones with all that chaos magic?”

“Dean, they were all wiped out remember? The power burned them from the inside out?”

“Oh, yeah… they were pretty _hot_.”

Castiel clears his throat, drawing them from bickering. “It appears,” Castiel says, “that it is Jack’s _sister_.”

Dean’s knees falter again, and he holds onto the sink for dear life. “Jack has a sister?” he asks, spluttering, “How is it we’ve gone all this time and we are only finding out _just now_ that Jack has a sister!”

Shrugging, Castiel continues. “Apparently, as Jack was being born, Chuck stole her thinking she was Jack. But when he realized what happened, he locked her on another plane. That seal was destroyed in your last battle with Billie, when she granted you those extra years –“

“It’s like we’ll never end!”

“And she must have found out about Jack’s life,” he says, “grew jealous of what he got.”

Dean recovers, advancing on the angel. “So… what is it you’d have us do?”

Castiel reaches for a scroll inside his coat, handing it over. “There’s an artifact of great power buried in the deserts of New Mexico –“

“Pretty convenient,” Sam says, stuffing his foot into an orthopedic shoe, “wasn’t the last one in New Mexico, too?”

“No, it was in Texas,” Dean corrects him. “But, yeah… we’re lucky everything’s just a drive away.”

“In the deserts of New Mexico,” Castiel speaks louder now, “you’ll find the Quill of Ramidiel.”

“A quill? What’s so important about a quill?”

“It has the power to rewrite fate.”

“You’ve been sitting on this fucking thing for _how long_?” Dean yells, vision blackening from his anger. “We could’ve use that for _so many_ fights! Like the Alpha Hellhound or the – or when vamps started trending on Twitter and the secret nearly got out! Hell, we could’ve rewritten God to be kinder and leave us alone!”

Castiel remains stoic, voice a cool growl. “The stakes have never been more important than they are now. You must hurry, before she finds the quill and changes _everything_.” He disappears, chair empty once more.

Dean strangles the scroll, fondness poisoned by Cas’s retreat. Emotions always like the tides in regards to the angel. Overwhelmed by them, he misses Sam’s approach. Flinches when his brother takes the scroll. “So,” he opens it, reading, “what do you want to do?”

The answer’s the same, isn’t it? Always. Never breaking for a single moment. Fighting bads that get bigger and badder each time. “What we gotta do Sammy,” he sighs, tiredly, “we get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one 😀


	14. That's No Moose!! - Bullwinkle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now folks, here's your daily crack drabble brought to you by the good folk who brought you all the others! Me!
> 
> Day 14 - That's No Moose!!

Water drips onto his forehead, drop by drop. Slowly. Sam wakes after counting the fifth one, groaning when filtered sunlight hits his eyes. He drags a hand over his face, wincing. Then, as the ringing in his head lessens, Sam starts taking in his surroundings.

Trees. Farther than he can see, thousands of trees surrounded the space. Canopy of leaves blocking most of the sun, a few beams breaking through whatever holes they find. The water that hit him came from a drooping leaf, its dew shining. He brushes his finger across it, swiping at a threatening drop before it could fall. As he draws his arm back, he feels grass tickling his skin. Sam shoots forward with a start, realizing the most important thing.

He’s naked.

Worse, his clothes were nowhere in sight. Sam shifts onto his knees, searching through brush and under roots, hoping he might catch a hint of plaid. All his efforts left him still nude, and now streaked by dirt.

“Okay,” he mumbles, leaning back on his haunches, “you’re in the woods… no telling how far away the closest person is… and you’ve got no clothes.” Repeating his last few thoughts didn’t help calm himself like Sam hoped. Instead Sam’s heartbeat jackrabbited further, pounding away inside his chest. Control spiraling, Sam looked beyond the present facts. At what he could remember last.

Rowena called, asking for his help in negotiating with a coven that encroached upon her territory. Baited him on promises that he can learn from the experience, on how witches operate. Sam agreed. Only he hadn’t abided by her rules, Dean and Cas traveling alongside him. Following in case of back up. Although they weren’t allowed near the bar where the meeting was set. Instead sticking back at the motel, waiting for Sam’s text.

They worried too much about him. About his dabbling into witchcraft. Rowena saw his natural ability and only wanted to nurture it. Help it grow strong like she knew it could be. The other witches in the coven also noticed his potential. As the meeting wrapped, they stuck around for drinks and traded secrets and spells. Before he blacked out, Sam remembered chatting up a spacy druid. Listening as she described a transformation spell…

His temple flares with pain, film spinning in the reel as his memory gives way. “Focus,” he says, “you gotta… find someone. Anyone. Or at least some clothes.”

Standing, Sam nearly trips over a loose root. He rights his footing and continues ahead. Trusting the little flutter in his stomach that tells Sam he chose the best direction. Even though he battles with low-hanging branches that whack him, and he steps on a variety of things he tries not thinking about. If he glanced down at what squished between his toes, Sam might throw himself onto the floor again and wait for bears or wolves to end his misery. It won’t be long until some predator finds him. The smell of blood from cuts and scrapes tinging the air, Sam tasting copper on his lips every time he breathed.

He happens on a small, babbling stream once through a seriously dense thicket. Walking over, picking needles out of his hair, Sam bends and stares at his reflection. A wild man greets him. Earth coats his skin, marking random patches of it in crazy patterns. And his hair seemed matted as more bits and pieces of nature were shown nesting there. Sighing, he dips his hands into the water and splashes his face. Repeats the action, running wet fingers through his locks until the top of his head felt smooth and clean with hair plastered down. He closes his eyes with a deep huff.

Sam hears it. Louder than snapping twigs, and different from the stream below. Listening, he catches moments of a drifting conversation between two men.

Standing, Sam inches closer. Cautious. Sneaking over to where the voices come from. The more he can understand, the stronger a sense of familiarity grates at Sam’s memories. It’s when he hears it, that loud “Son of a bitch!” fired off like a shotgun blast, that Sam knows who’s there.

Head poking from behind a tree, Sam sees Dean and Cas. They hadn’t heard him approach, distracted by each other. Trapped in an argument.

“I can’t take it Cas,” Dean whines, stomping his feet, “there’s gotta be something we can do!”

Cas sighs, shifting on his feet. “You heard Rowena,” he says, “she’s doing the research now. Once she figures out a way to help Sam she’ll give us a call.”

“I bet one of those stinkin’ witches would know,” Dean growls, pacing a deeper trench into the forest floor. “Since they’re the ones who got Sam in this mess in the first place.” Sam almost yells at that, telling Dean that he’s fine. He’s right there. Perfectly okay except for the ‘no clothes’ situation. But he stays quiet, watching. Curiosity edging out his exhaustion. “I mean… what the hell am I supposed to do with him _now_?” Dean gestures nearby, Cas following where he points. Sam does, too, and nearly collapses at the sight.

_How did he miss this_?

A few feet away, a moose sat at attention. Calm like he knew the two men fighting in front of him, when any other animal would buck and scream at their acidic tones. Even stranger, Sam notes, was the strips of fabric it sat on. As well as the plaid shirt shredded over its body.

“I swear on everything, Cas,” Dean says, striding towards the beast. Sam gasps, scared at what might happen. Dean wraps his arms around the moose’s neck. He’s not thrown. The moose actually nuzzles Dean, antlers brushing his head. “I swear I’ll never call him a moose again. Hell, I’ll even change his contact photo in my phone from Bullwinkle.”

That’s the missing piece of this puzzle. Sam, hearing enough, whistled at the other men. They turned. Catching sight of Sam’s disheveled head, their jaws drop. “Hey!” he says, grin forced and awkward, “I’m keeping you to your word on that Dean, I mean it!”

Dean splutters, his grip limp on the moose. Cas takes point in his absence, asking, “What happened Sam?”

“I’m not too sure,” he says, “I was out celebrating with the witches, and the next thing I knew I woke up in the forest a little… _underdressed_.” Sam clears his throat, tapping out a stilted tune with the bark. “What did Rowena tell you?”

“She said that one of the witches taught you a spell that allowed you to transform into your spirit animal,” Cas explains. “But that you couldn’t transform _back_ into a human and, thinking like an animal, a – um, well… a _moose_ , you fled from them.”

“We’ve been out here since before dawn,” Dean jumps in, finally letting go of the moose. It growls, advancing on him, Lays its head on Dean’s shoulder with a heavy _plop_. “Cas and I… we came across this bad boy maybe an hour ago wearing your clothes. We figured it was you…” Scowling, he kicks at the dirt. “Of course, Rowena was just playing a trick on us. She won’t be laughing the next time I –“

“Yeah, yeah, revenge, revenge.” Cold wind cuts through the clearing, icy chill spreading through Sam’s body. His teeth chatter as he shrinks on himself. “Can one of you please hand me my _pants_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now be sure to stick around and leave some kudos and a comment 😀


	15. Impala Alternate Paint Job - Bubblegum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! Now this prompt was probably best served as a visual art piece, but since this is the medium I've chosen you'll just need to read along to see what color I've decided to re-paint Baby... or rather, what the characters re-paint Baby to. I was flip-flopping around on this one, and settled on the below.
> 
> Enjoy! Day 14 - Impala Alternate Paint Job

“There are no innocents. There are, however, different degrees of responsibility.”

-Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Played with Fire

He should have known by Jack’s grin. The younger boy never looked as sinister then he did walking into the kitchen, lips curled in private glee. Looking every bit like his birth father. Sam paused; fork half raised with dressing-drenched spinach stuck on the spines. Waiting for Jack to share what caused such a strange mood. When Jack keeps quiet, puttering near the counter, Sam sets his lunch down. Sighing, “Jack?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Where were you just now?”

Jack schools his features into something more innocent, like Sam hadn’t seen his earlier deviousness. “Around?”

“Around…” Sam taps his finger, thinking. “Around where?”

“The Bunker.”

“Jack…” He swipes at his mouth, frowning. “Sit down.” Jack abandons his glass of milk on the table, following Sam’s orders in a sullen manner. Shoulders drooping as he sinks into the seat. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

He doesn’t, at first. But under intense pressure from parental disappointment, Jack’s resolve shatters. “I was only doing what you told me to do!”

“What?”

“About Dean,” he explains, “About what I should do.”

It clicks. He flashes back, remembering a short conversation they had. When Jack, locked out of his room and knob in hand, stood staring at the door. Sam happened across him by accident, passing through towards the library. “Jack?” he asked then, too, “what are you doing?”

“My doorknob fell off,” he said, presenting it, “I… I didn’t think I pulled that hard.”

Sam arched a brow, glancing between the knob and where it was. Then he looked up at the end of the hallway, where a hint of plaid disappeared around the curve. _Ah_. “Jack,” he said, “you didn’t do this. Dean did.”

“But… Dean wasn’t here?”

He won’t correct him there, addressing more important issues. “No, it’s a prank Jack. Dean loosened the screws on your knob. You understand?”

“I… I think I do,” he said, “Pranks… there’s supposed to be retaliation, right? Dean pranked me, so I should prank him back?”

“I guess.”

“How do I prank?”’ Jack asked, “Do I… break his doorknob?”

He whistled a low note, rocking on his heels. “No, Jack, you don’t have to do that,” Sam drawled, “Pranking… it should annoy Dean. Get under his skin, like how it must’ve when you thought you broke your door.”

Jack nodded, “I was annoyed, yes. So, Dean should feel annoyed and that would make me… happy?”

“If you do it right,” he said. “Do things like… put hair dye in his shampoo, switch Cas’s number in his phone with a random one or make a self-portrait out of clippings from his Busty Asian Beauties.”

“But those aren’t affecting him?”

“They will. They’re things he loves,” Sam told Jack, “Looks. Porn. _Cas_. If you mess with stuff like that, then he’ll be pranked. Oh! And it has to be a surprise. The best pranks are always the ones you don’t see coming.”

He left Jack after that, hoping he gave enough to be helpful. From Jack’s entrance and how he acted, Sam guesses his advice worked. Which left only one, final question. “What did you do?”

“Sam!” Jack gasps, “It’s supposed to be a surprise –“

“For Dean!”

“Sam…”

“Jack,” Sam mirrors his tone, pouting, “come on… tell me? Please?” His lips thin, squinting as he leans over the table. “Tell me or I tell Dean that you pranked him.”

“ _Aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!_ ”

They jump, turning to where the scream tore the gentle peace. Jack chuckles, “I think he knows.” He trips out of his seat, bounding after the sound. Sam following with a touch more poise, keeping pace with Jack. As they run, Dean screams and curses. Guiding Sam, giving him a better clue on what Jack did. He recognizes this part of the Bunker, and Sam’s stomach lurches.

“Jack,” he gasps, dialing up his speed, “you didn’t…”

Jack did. Sam openly gapes at the Impala, mind fritzing as he takes in her new style. Sleek black replaced by a Pepto-Bismol pink. Across the hood, on all doors, and over Baby’s hood, too. He covered every inch of her in this cheap paint.

“Sam!” Cas shouts, overpowering the static. “Sam, Dean, he –“ Sam looks at his brother, cradled in Cas’s arms. Unconscious, drooling slightly. Totally limp. “He fainted from shock,” he says, brows arched in concern. “What’s happening? Why is his car pink?”

“I… I don’t know,” Sam tells Cas, glaring at Jack, “but _someone_ might.”

Jack stares in horror at Dean, choking on starts of sentences. But then Sam elbows Jack, which does the trick. “I did it!” he blurts, panicky, “I… I painted the Impala. But only because Sam told me to!”

“What? Cas – no,” he defends himself, “I told Jack he should prank Dean but not like this!”

“Which, if you think about it,” Jack adds, “sort of makes this Dean’s fault. If he hadn’t pranked me, I wouldn’t have done this.”

Cas doesn’t agree with his reasoning. He throws an arm around his shoulder, lifting Dean as he stands. “As far as I’m concerned,” he growls, “it’s all your faults – including my idiot husband’s. Now, if you want to be alive by the time he wakes up, you need to get Baby looking like she did.”

Sam agrees, knowing how important the next few hours are. If Dean comes to before they’ve finished, then Team Free Will’s membership will be cut in half. “Dean keeps black paint at his workstation, for whenever Baby comes back dinged or scratch from a hunt.”

“Will there be enough to fix… _that_?”

“I’m pretty sure. If not, then Jack’ll just fly into town and get more,” he claps the younger boy on his shoulder with a heavy hand. “Isn’t that right?”

Jack agrees, “I can get some now, too, if we need!”

“Use what we have, and then if you need to, go.” Cas carries Dean out of the garage, “I’ll look after Dean. Make sure he stays under, buy you time.” His voice echoes ominously as he nears the exit. “But I don’t know how long I can distract him. Work as if he were storming down the hall in the next five minutes.”

Sam waves him off, false grin fading into a scowl when he finally disappears. He rounds on Jack, arms crossed. “You _painted_ his car?”

“You said to mess with something he loves!”

“Yes, _loves_!” Sam yells, “Not the one thing he’s creepily, unhealthily obsessed with! You’re lucky he passed out before the bloodlust set in…” His own anger clouds his judgement, red foggy at the edges of his vision. The color bleeds clear when he notices Jack’s trembling lip. “Jack?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I… I just wanted to do a good prank. I didn’t mean to go overboard.” Tears threaten to fall, and seeing them extinguishes the fire burning in his chest.

“Jack…” Sam drags the younger boy into a loose hug, tousling his hair, “I know. And I’m sure Dean would understand, too… sort of… if he doesn’t believe the lie we’ll tell about him dreaming the pink Impala.”

“You think?”

He doesn’t. But Jack needs his own lies, too. At least what he says next is the truth. “Besides, this is only paint. Baby’s seen worse than Malibu Barbie throw-up. We’ll have her back to her beautiful self in no time.”

“Yeah,” Jack sniffs, squeezing Sam tighter into the embrace. They stay like that, hugging, unmoving despite the ticking clock in the background. “Hey, Sam?” Jack asks, “it was a good prank, wasn’t it?”

“Honestly?” he shrugs, laughing, “the best. I mean… Dean fainted. _Dean_. I wish I could’ve seen it happen.”

“Well, we can.” Jack pulls back, smiling, “I set up cameras to capture it all.”

“You did?”

“From different angles.”

Sam thinks about it, weighing his options. “Later,” he says, “first… let’s get painting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You like? Drop a kudos and a comment below!


	16. Hair Swap - Preferable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 - Hair Swap!
> 
> Honestly one of the prompts I've been looking forward to the most, hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.

He returns on a Tuesday. Walking through the door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and spinning his keys on his fingers. Cas sees Dean at the map table, back facing him. Short hair sticking wildly at all ends, hunched over as he watches a video on Sam’s laptop. Shaking with silent laughter. The sight makes his heart swoon, Cas falling deeper in love despite the previous record set yesterday when Dean called because he texted a frowny face. They spoke well into the evening, until Cas fell asleep.

Dean has not heard him yet, so Cas uses it to his advantage. Silently descending the stairs, he creeps towards the other man. Runs his fingers through Dean's hair and drops a small kiss along the crown. “Hello, Dean.”

It wasn’t Dean.

Sam’s face comes into view, an earbud falling out. “Cas!” he says, slamming the space bar, “What are you doing?”

Cas pales, blinking. Looking from the younger Winchester’s face, then at his hair. Nothing adds up. “Sam?” he says, “you’re not…”

“I’m not what?” 

“You’re not Dean.”

He snorts, turning fully in his seat. Languidly stretching, boots propped across a nearby, unoccupied chair. “Thought it’d be obvious,” Sam starts, lips pursing, “I am the _more attractive_ brother. For a second I thought you broke and finally admitted your attraction to me, because then I’d have to awkwardly turn you down and hope it wouldn’t ruin yours and Dean's relationship.”

“I…” There’s a lot he said that Cas needs time digesting. He still hasn’t gotten past the hair. Nor Sam’s lazy smirk that reminded him of someone else. Before he can think more on this, he hears another person approaching. Deep timbre achingly familiar. “Dean? We’re in here – _Dean_!”

Dean steps into view, hair pulled tight in a bun. Smiling, like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Cas!” he says, striding forward with a glass of green liquid in hand, “I thought I heard you. Didn’t think you’d be back this soon, though.” He kisses him, free arm looping around Cas’s shoulder.

Cas hugs reflexively, nose scrunching in distaste. “You reek,” he says. And, as his hand trails across the damp planes of his shirt, Cas adds, “sweaty, too.”

Chuckling, Dean pulls away. “Yeah, I hadn’t showered yet. I was on my way, too, honest. Don’t like stewing in my yoga sweat for long.” He gestures at his outfit, the loose cotton t-shirt and shorts sticking at odd angles, toes flexing on the hardwood floors. “But I had to make sure _someone_ was doing their research like he _promised_.” The pointed glare aimed at Sam strikes, the younger boy switching tabs with a rueful pout.

He hadn’t left them for more than three days. How did this happen? “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, never better actually,” Dean says, “why do you ask?”

There were many reasons. Given how ordinary the brothers treated this situation, Cas opted for a simple lie. “It’s just… yoga?”

“I know,” his hunter sighs, leaning on map table. Tapping on his glass. “I normally do it every _other_ day, but it was raining all morning and I didn’t feel like running in it. But I’m keeping with my juice schedule!”

“Your… juice schedule?”

Sam snickers, nudging Dean’s thigh with his elbow. “You know, Cas, it’s the thing Dean drinks that tastes like raw sewage and not… y’know, good?”

Dean needles him back, flicking his temple. “It is good. Good _for you_.”

“Chunky vegetable water isn’t good for me. Burgers are,” Sam stands, collecting his things. He offers a tiny salute in Cas’s direction before swaggering through the exit. “Which I’m gonna go ahead and make. Hopefully regain some of my appetite along the way. So long, bitches!”

Glaring at his retreated form, Dean sips at his juice. “Jerk.” Then, Dean downs the entire contents while Cas watched helplessly.

His mind ran through a number of possible scenarios. Dean and Sam were being possessed. Replaced by versions of themselves from a different universe. Under a spell. Touched a cursed object. Were playing an elaborately staged prank on him. The list grew infinitely. Stopping only when Dean snaps his fingers, drawing Cas out of his mind. “Hey,” he says, running a hand down his arm, “you okay?”

“Fine,” he answers, throat scratchy. He stumbles backwards, giggling. “I… it was a long trip. Guess I’m pretty – I’m tired.”

“Tired, huh?” Dean asks, grinning. Reading far past the shallow waters of his excuse. “Yeah, I guess I’m pretty beat, too. My body was such a tight knot, like I haven’t stretched in _ages_.” Or ever, Cas mentally tacks on. “If I wasn’t so filthy I’d collapse onto our bed and…” Dean demonstrates, shimmying onto the table and dropping. Legs helplessly kicking as they dangle over the edge. “Whoops,” he says, “give me a hand?”

Cas inches close enough he can grab Dean and lift. As he does, the hairtie holding the other man’s hair breaks and a waterfall of hair cascades across his shoulders. He gapes at the magnificence, unsure if Sam’s hair ever looked like that. Or was that long when he left.

“Dammit,” Dean growls, picking up the former accessory. Frowns at the broken circle, now a sad line. “I’m running out of these… oh well.” He tosses it blindly, tugging Cas into the space between his legs in the same breath. “Cas,” he says, “I thought you said you were tired?”

Cas winces, pants incredibly tight since the threadbare exercise shorts allow Cas to feel _everything_. “I did.”

“I _was_ tired,” Dean sings, looping fingers around Cas’s wrist. Dragging the hand up, guiding it into his hair. “But if you want, I’m game for whatever. Better before I’ve showered than after, right?”

“Dean, I…” His protests still, Dean’s hand covering his and squeezing. Cas’s fingers threading through soft locks, a newer sensation that makes fireworks explode behind his eyes. He claws at Dean’s hair again, tighter. Those same bursts happen within Dean’s green gaze. “You like this?”

“Of course I like it, Cas. I love it.”

“No, no… I mean _this_.” He pulls Dean’s hair harder, a gasped moan stolen from his lips, “Having your hair pulled.”

Dean furrows his brow, playfulness waning. “Well, yeah. But it’s not like I’m the only one who gets off on it.”

“Hmm?”

“Cas?” Dean asks, pushing his arm away. Frowning, “Are _you_ okay?”

In that instant, Cas makes a decision. Maybe not the best, but he sees it through. He places both hands on Dean’s scalp and grabs his hair, one after the other, in quick succession. The pupils of Dean’s eyes widen, and his adam’s apple throbs. Better yet, Cas’s leaking dick spasms. He _did_ enjoy this. “Sorry,” Cas smiles, guiding Dean’s face towards his. Their lips hovering nearby, barely touching. “This hunt, it got me all turned around. But I can tell you about it after, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean kisses him, ankles crossed above his ass. “Less talk about work, more _this_.”

“Gladly.”

* * *

The next day, Cas sits with the Winchesters at the table as he explained the strange circumstances. “Apparently, when touching the finger trap,” he tells them, “it caused your personalities to switch… among other things.”

Sam sighs, brushing his bangs from his face. Hairstyle returning, the ends curling below Sam’s chin. “Thanks for figuring that out, Cas. Being Dean for two days was _more_ than I’ve ever wanted to be.”

“I don’t think it was enough,” Dean snorts into his coffee. “Maybe if it was a week, my stunning personality would’ve rubbed off on you. Maybe then you'd be less of a wet blanket all the time.”

“Really, Dean? You _wanted_ to drink those disgusting juices for a week?” At the mention, Dean’s stomach gurgles loudly. Dean shudders from the memory of happily inhaling those tinctures, cheeks tinted green. “That’s what I thought.”

“Whatever.” Dean stands, circling the table. Placing a sweet kiss atop Cas’s head. “Just glad you put everything back to normal.” He pulls on the hair tie at his wrist, quickly gathering wavy, chestnut locks and folding them into a messy bun. “I’m making omelets. Any requests – that _aren’t_ vegetables, Sammy.”

“You're supposed to put vegetables in omelets!”

“Meats and cheeses _only_!”

Cas sighs, sipping at his own coffee while they bickered. Glad that both brothers were themselves again. At least, almost.

When researching the cause of Sam and Dean’s strange behavior, and after finding the cursed object responsible for it, Cas happened across a spell that could undo the finger trap’s effect. Returning what had been swapped. As he read through the ingredients, he kept flashing back on the wondrous night Dean and he shared together. The feel of his fingers through that long hair. Cas would miss it when Dean’s old hairstyle returned.

But, hidden within the margins, Cas found a scrawled note from Men of Letters past. Deciphering that faded chicken scratch, the writer added extra instructions. Variations of this spell that could change its effects. In the example given, a beauty mark stolen could be duplicated and shared between the donor and recipient. Cas wondered if it would apply elsewhere.

“Cas?” Dean calls, bundle of hair bouncing while he cooked. Dean swaying along with an imaginary song. “Cas, what do you want in your omelet?”

He stood, drifting closer. Wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and burying his nose in his hair. “I’ll have what you’ll have.”

“Two kitchen sinks then,” Dean grins, nipping at Cas’s lips. He shoots a stale glare over Cas’s shoulder, “and one pussy vegetarian.”

“Dean,” Cas nuzzles his cheek, laughing, “watch it. If you're not careful, some of your hair might fall in.”

Sighing, Dean focuses on his cooking. Extra cautious with how his bun flopped around. “You know,” he whispers, “sometimes I think I might be better off with a buzzcut...”

“Really?” Cas digs his fingers into Dean’s hairline, scraping it. Catching loose strands in his efforts. “You think so?”

Chuckling, Dean melts into Cas’s embrace. “Nah… short hair’s lame, and _so_ not me.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? I never really thought about long-haired Dean but quaratnine Jensen made me a believer lol.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! Drop a kudos and a comment below 😁


	17. Catstiel - Allergies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late-posting!
> 
> I started this early, but then got sidetracked lol. Hope you enjoy this little story about a 🐈, Cas might not after certain revelations from last week's ep. Or he might, by the end...
> 
> Read and find out!

Dean hears its purr before he sees it. The rumble far different than what he’s experienced with, softer and higher pitched. He steps back, fingers sliding off Baby’s handle. Scans the surrounding area for sight of a fuzzy tail or rounded ear. It’s not obvious at first. But its purring continues, louder. Better able for him to track it.

He finds the damned cat wedged between his tire and Baby’s frame. A shadow with blue eyes that watched him from its perch. “Seriously,” he grouses, “you lookin’ to become roadkill?” It hisses, a midnight paw reaching out and swatting at him. “Not doing a good job, convincing me to _not_ just get in and drive.” Dean slowly draws his hand forward, fingers twitching. The cat hit again, scratching his hand. “ _Dammit_.”

It’s a threat he _should_ follow through on, but he doesn’t. Dean sets his purchases on the ground, kneeling, while he struggled freeing the cat. There was more clawing, and curses tumbled out of both their mouths. A spectacle for any passerby. Soon, though, Dean freed he little kitty. Its blue eyes unnervingly staring up at him as he held him in his arms. He clears his throat, dander already affecting him.

“Okay,” he drops the cat. It lands gracefully. “Shoo, now. Find a better bed for the night – I’ve heard good things about this motel by the highway…” Defiantly, it struts back towards his car. “No!” he says. It won’t stop. “I said – _no_!” Dean catches it mid-jump, eyes watering. He sneezes, glaring at this stray cat. “You’re not gonna leave me alone, are you?”

“ _Meow_.”

“Figures…” Dean shifts his bag, still keeping a tight grip on the cat with one arm. It barely struggles. He wished it would, instead of staring at him. Planning, biding its time. Dean scooped the bag onto his wrist, then opened the car door. Entering, he placed his purchases on the passenger side footwell. The unwanted guest slunk over to the other side. “Keep your paw prints to a minimal, capisce?” It blinks, and then places one paw on the tape deck. If Dean weren’t midway through dial tone, he’d have strangled the cat. He swallows the annoyance, switching for some false cheer as Cas answers his phone.

“Cas, hey!” Dean says, fiddling with his keys, “yeah… no, yeah I got the stuff. M’just on my way back, have to make a pitstop before I… why? Um…” Dean glances at the cat, now leaning on his dashboard. Standing, using its hind legs. “A little hiccup, s’all. I –“ Dean sneezes, startling the cat and Cas. “I – sorry, I… thanks Cas.” He pauses, an unfiltered, genuine expression staining his face. “That’s… thanks for being concerned but no, I’m not – it’s not sick. Allergies – I, no you don’t have to… really, just wait in the Dean Cave and I’ll be there when I get there… kick Sam out if you have to! Okay, bye…”

Dean ends his call, staring at the phone screen. Smile widening as he catches his reflection. That doesn’t last long, cat parading into view. Crawling onto his lap, nudging at his hand. “Hey,” he growls, “ease up will you? Or I’m not driving you to a shelter.”

It turns, blinking up at him. Blue eyes wide and… _familiar_. The cat continues until fully settled on Dean’s lap.

“Someone’s got personal space issues…” Dean bites his lip, unsure how he should act. His hand draws near, afraid of more attacks that’ll leave him marked and bloody. When the cat remains calm, he pets it. Featherlight, barely brushing its fur. He does a better job with his next try, the cat mewling from his touch. “You like that?” he says, repeating his actions, “You like that… cat?”

It hisses, Dean frozen with his hand on its haunches.

“Not cat,” he mumbles. Dean moves to tickle behind its ear, wondering. “That’s what you _are_ , right? S'no name. Unless you used to belong to three-year old…” Looking at the phone in his other hand, Dean subtly turns it on. Searches for the nearest animal hospital, scrolling with watery eyes. He sneezes again, except the cat won’t move.

“Okay,” Dean says, route in mind, “we’ll get you to the right people, and you’ll find a loving home soon.”

The cat responds with a gentle lift of its furry head, and another slow blink.

Dean sighs, “ _Dammit_.”

* * *

Cas glances between Dean and the small bundle in his arms. “When I sent you to get snacks,” he says, “this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Hey!” Dean yelps, tucking the cat closer to his chest. Glaring, “He’s not a snack. He’s our s _on_.” Jack protests now, him and Sam watching from the sidelines of the kitchen. Seated there once Dean texted for a family meeting in there, spoiling their date night. “Sorry, our _other_ son.”

“Dean…” Cas pinches his brow, inhaling like he’s learned from his meditation podcasts. Except the irritation lingers despite being breathed out. “Why would you bring home a cat?”

“Because I just couldn’t leave him on the side of the road!”

“And what was wrong with an animal shelter?”

“We…” He blushes, whether from embarrassment or the hives finally spreading past his shirt collar. “We already bonded.”

“For fuck’s sake Dean,” Cas says, “we can’t have a cat roaming around the Bunker!”

“He’ll be fine, promise.” Dean advances, holding his cat in a way that the lower half swings with each step. “Catstiel will be on his best behavior at all times, he promises.”

“I doubt that – hold on,” Cas’s eyes widen, brows angling downwards, “ _Catstiel_?”

“Yeah, Catstiel.”

“You – you named him after me?”

Dean shrugs, “He reminded me of you, sweetheart.”

Cas scoffs, “I doubt he could’ve remind –“ He stops, the cat’s paw batting at his nose. Lingering there while blue meets blue, lightning striking between the two. Silent communication that lasts only a few seconds. Retreating, Cas mumbles to himself. Then, “You will be taking care of… _Catstiel_. I hope you understand that.”

“Of course,” Dean nods, “I’m gonna make an appointment with a doctor tomorrow for an allergy shot. And then we can hit up some pet stores and…” He rambles, Catstiel climbing free from his hold and up his arm. Relaxing on his shoulders like a living scarf. Cas chuckles, soft and under his breath, while Dean animatedly rambles about their new future of being dads to a cat.

Maybe the Internet didn’t ruin him for _all_ cats.


	18. Salmon Dean - Upstream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one - another animal!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this little ficlet!

Cas rolls his pantlegs midway up his thigh, shoes and socks already off as he eases into the kiddie pool they bought. “Are you sure?” he asks, glancing at Sam, “that I have to be _in_ here, to do this?”

“It doesn’t say,” Sam tells him, reading the open book in his hands. Jack, nearby, holding a bushel of burnt sage. Its smoke drifting upwards into the clearing. His other hand hung at his side, stained with crushed berries that he painted Cas’s face with before he toed the waters. “But it’s probably for the best, in case the cure doesn’t work.”

Sighing, Cas sinks down. Ass slightly dipping into the water, wetting it. Trench coat and under-layer abandoned, thankfully, so they won’t dampen. He glares at Dean, scowling. “This is why you don’t antagonize druids…”

Dean hadn’t heard, swimming around. Uncaring like any salmon when talked to.

“Soon as you get him in your hands Cas,” Sam says, “remember to wrap the braided reeds around his tail!”

Cas waves his string, braided for five painstakingly, _grueling_ hours while the others readied other ingredients. Set up the clearing for this moment, dragging Dean’s pool into the shining moonlight. Hopefully, when Dean is de-gilled and _dry_ , he’ll appreciate the hard work they put in saving him from a lifetime as a fish. And won’t throw an empty beer bottle into a river.

“He insulted Baby!” Dean argued, wrapping his arms around Cas’s middle in bed. He wouldn’t budge, still too angry with him. “C’mon… at least it wasn’t plastic… but was a _warning_. Next time he calls my beautiful car a gas-guzzling monster, I’m throwing in an uncut six-pack ring.” They fell asleep shortly after that, both too heated for any regular nighttime activities. Although that anger was forgotten when Cas woke up to the smell of fish and an absence of warmth at his side.

Cas focuses on this moment, watching his Dean bounce around what limited space he had. Edging closer, Cas corralled him into one section. Then, when he tried breaking free, he caught Dean from under his legs.

He was slippery. Cas nearly drops him a few times, Dean gasping for air. They won’t have much time. Cas ties a single knot around Dean’s back fin, and then hoists him up by it. Dean dangles while bathed in moonlight, directly above Cas’s head.

“Chant, Cas,” Sam reminds him, “ _chant_!”

Sighing, Cas utters the first few syllables in a far deeper growl than he’s usual. Sound coming from the depths of his throat, the ancient tongue heavy and complicated. Thankfully, he doesn’t get words wrong. Cas breezes through this section, eyes locked on Dean. His fish-love slowed his fighting. Breaths more prominent and shallower.

Sam and Jack are by the edge now, leaning forward and over the pool’s rim. “The last part,” he says, “c’mon –“

“Do I have to –“

“Think of it like a kiss!” Jack says, grinning. Thumbs held high, “True love’s kiss, like in the movies!”

He wished it were a kiss. Instead, Cas opened his mouth wide – as far as he could – and dropped Dean into his gullet like he was a pelican. Cas chokes on him, Dean caught halfway. Only saved from Cas’s stomach by the reed tied around his fin. With Dean nestled in his esophagus, Cas finishes his chanting. Slowly pulling Dean from his throat after each word.

It happens quickly. Dean hovers over the pool, looking nearly dead. All of them watching, waiting. Cas faltered, worn from that last part. Knew it’s completion would drain most of his energy. He keeps upright, not giving in until it worked.

Then Dean glowed. Cas drops the other man into the water, finally losing his battle with gravity. At least, when he fell, Cas landed on the grass. His feet still stuck in the water. Drier than Dean who, when he transforms back into normal, flailed around in wet pajamas. “Cas?” he yells, “Cas! Sam!”

“Right here, Dean,” Cas mutters, stress collapsing in on itself. He relaxes onto the soft grass with a sigh, “We’re here.”

Splashing stops, Dean’s movements less erratic. “Shit,” he breathes, “guys I… I was a fish.”

“We know.”

“I was a _fish_.”

“A salmon,” Jack adds, “to be more exact.”

“I was a –“

“Yes, Dean, you were a fish!” Sam snaps the book closed, drawing Cas’s eyes open. He shifts, looking from the slightly annoyed younger Winchester, then to the older one curled in a little ball. “But you’re not anymore. So, if you could get out – it’d be nice to go inside.”

Dean quiets, thinking. Uncurls his hand from his knee so it can splash around in the water. “Actually, do you… I think I’m gonna stay in here a bit longer.”

Cas’s body loses what little energy it had, and he happily welcomes unconsciousness.


	19. Flipped? - I Can Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All caught up!! Honestly had a different idea for this but that was too much for the short timeframe I had lol, besides this is still cute and I like it lol.
> 
> Hope you do, too!

“Dean!” Cas calls, perched on Baby’s hood with a beer in hand. “You don’t have to do this!”

Sam shushes him, camera out and pointed at his brother. “Don’t listen to him!” he says, “Do it!”

Dean rolls his eyes, continuing to stretch. He shifts, bending the other knee. Wondering how he made it there. On the side of the road with his brother, boyfriend, and Jack – the other boy sitting on the ground, watching him with wide eyes – about to do a backflip.

Maybe it was because of the video Jack watched. A compilation video of people doing the trick that left him curious. Asking the others in the car how one does a backflip.

It couldn't have been Cas, though. He shot Jack’s idea down like any smart parent should. Especially given how graceless Jack was. “It requires a lot of training,” he said, “and there are other, more important things you’d need to master first before attempting an advanced level move like that.”

Sam surely wasn’t innocent. “Dean learned how to do one, once,” he said. Glancing back with a smirk, “There was this girl on the cheerleading team, at this high school we were staying at. One of the longer ones – I think three months. Anyway, she’s not into his whole schtick, so Dean asks what he has to do to get her to go on a date with him. She tells him if he could do a backflip, she’d consider it.”

“And he did one?”

“You did go on that date Dean, right?” He didn’t answer, looking at the rearview. At Cas’s expectant glare, mouth a thin line. His response was unimportant, Sam carrying on. “Though that was so long ago. At this age he’s practically a _grandpa_. Doubt he could do one even if he wanted to.”

Which, now that he thinks about it, makes it his fault. Because Sam _clearly_ laid out bait. Revenge for replacing all his shoes with oversized clown ones before a date with Eileen, snickering when he flopped about when chasing after him. Except Dean’s ego spoke instead of his common sense, and they pulled over onto the shoulder.

“Any day, Dean!” Sam says, laughing.

Dean scowls, standing at his full height. Barefoot, because doing this in jeans was already hard enough. He had to uncomplicate it somehow. Outer layers shucked until he was left with a simple t-shirt. Pockets emptied so nothing fell out. “I’m getting there,” he yells. Steeling his nerves, bouncing on the balls of his feet, Dean went through the motions mentally. Steps still dusty and covered in cobwebs from the deep part of his brain he pulled them from. He hoped muscle memory worked. “Okay,” Dean says, “on three. One… two… three –“

* * *

“It’s not funny –“

“It’s _so_ funny,” Sam says, rewinding the video. Showing Dean, leaning over the hospital bed’s guard rail so Dean can see better. See him perfectly complete a backflip. Whooping with joy when he stuck the landing, only for it to sour as a deafening crack filled the air. Ankle snapping. Dean collapsing on himself, Cas and Jack rushing after him while Sam _cackled_ Still recording.

Cas grabbed his wrist, keeping him from snatching Sam’s phone and breaking it. “Think of it this way, Dean,” he says, smiling. Twining their fingers together. “You proved that you can still do a backflip.”

“At my own risk.”

“Would it make you feel better if I said we can go on a date?” Cas asks, “Not that you doing a backflip was reliant on it happening, of course.”

Dean sighs, sinking into the bed while Sam replayed Dean’s mishap for the millionth time. And maybe it was Cas at his side, or the exhilaration of flying through the air. Perhaps the morphine still dripping into his arm had a part, too. But that didn’t matter. Dean relaxed, letting Sam live.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the stream of fics - will hopefully get to a more regular posting schedule after this.


	20. Unfortunate Soul Marks - Unicorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing a soulmark AU... and probably my last lol.
> 
> Not that I didn't have fun coming up with this story, but it's not my cup of tea. Here's to another one!

Dean knew two things since he was born – his birthmark was in the shape of a dick, and his soulmate was a complete and total one. Because the mark isn’t _only_ embarrassing, it’s impossible to hide. Which explains the latter. Who else but a total _jerk_ would lay their privates on someone’s forehead? And, in true Winchester fashion, that kind of man would be the love of his life.

He lowers the brim of his hat, cursing as wind whips across the sandy beach. “Fuckin’ beach,” he grumbles, “fuckin’ outdoors…” Having a dick stamped on his face meant Dean preferred not leaving his house. Growing up, he was the definition of an indoor kid. When he did leave his house, Dean practiced safety measures like having long bangs, wearing bandanas and hats, using concealer; it never worked as well as he hoped. Countless times these measures failed and exposed his shame to the world. Made school all the more difficult once the other kids realized what that shape meant.

Dean never had many friends. No playdates, parties, or sleepovers. Not many people wanted a human unicorn hanging around them, despite how Mary tried encouraging him. All he could do was count the days until he graduated high school. Started working at his uncle’s auto shop soon after, as promised. Keeping his head buried under car parts saved him from many social interactions, where eyes could stare at his forehead and turn every conversation awkward. There was no need for him to ever leave the safety of the little bubbles he had.

Except Sam. Used his intense puppy dog eyes, convinced Dean he would _like_ the beach. As if being abandoned by his little brother and his soul mate were what he always wanted. _They_ had a cute story. Sam took sign in college. One day, his tutor reached over during a lesson. Corrected the bend of his pinkie finger with her thumb and pointer. Sparks flew while the grey blobs of their marks darkened before disappearing immediately. A flip switched, and both he and Eileen _knew_ what it meant.

That’s probably the only part Dean looks forward to, when meeting his soulmate. The cause of his suffering was also who can save him from it. Once the shadow dick vanishes, maybe then Dean could enjoy the beach. Or his life. Although starting over at twenty-five seems too daunting. Better he sticks with what he knows.

Like how he hates being outside. _Especially_ at the beach. This close, winds from the sea blow with all their might in their attempts to steal Dean’s hat. Straw shield billowing from each impact. Dean keeps a hand firmly fixed atop his head as he wandered, protecting it. Pushing down hard enough he caused a minor headache not even kicking wet sand and trickling surf could heal.

Dean also hates this hat. It’s not something he would wear, better for old women in gardens on sunny days. However, of his collection the straw provides perfect concealment.

If it would just stay _on_.

A few kids run past, Dean tipping its edge further down until he cannot see. Waiting for them to pass. He knew the earful that waited should one of them catch sight of his mark, and then raced off for a parent. Asking questions, pointing, getting Dean in trouble for something he had _no say_ in.

They leave with no trouble. Dean sighs in relief, body untensing. As this happens, a sharp gust strikes from behind. His hat tumbles out of his grip, skipping across the sand.

Dean waits a beat. Then, he races after it.

Chasing, one hand stretched far but never quite there. The other plastered over his forehead like an awkward bandage. If he used both, snagging his runaway hat would be much easier. It’s too risky, though. So Dean continues with his self-inflicted handicap. Blindly following as the accessory leads him towards a far part of the beach.

It’s close. His fingers are nearly around it. Dean needed a burst of speed, and it would be in his grasp. He adds –

_Slam_!

Down. Darkness. Dean groans, dizzy from the collision. A sharp hiss greeting his own voiced pain, telling Dean he slammed into another person.

Collateral damage, a Winchester specialty.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean says, forehead burning. He wonders if hitting another person could cause blunt force trauma. At least enough for skin to break. A bloody wound is the last thing he needed. “I was chasing my hat and –“

“I noticed,” the stranger says, deep voice sending chills down his spine. “Just as I was getting out of the water.”

“Again, sorry.” He rises, “I’ll just be out of your…” Dean trails off, finally opening his eyes. The first thing he focuses on is a large, familiar shadowed dick. Then, he sees its true color reveals itself as grey transitions into tan. Which means… “Holy crap.” Dean looks at the other man. “Your soul mark was on your dick?”

“I… yes, it…” He blushes, blue eyes comically large at Dean’s blunt observation. Running fingers through wet locks, he stammers, “I’m sorry, that you had to hit into – you were bent over, so of course – _wait_. What do you mean by _was_?”

“As in… not there anymore?”

The man looks at his dick, choking on a gasp. Seeing what Dean does. “It’s gone,” he says, glancing back at Dean, “I thought that was only supposed to happen when you met your –“

“Yeah.” He doesn’t _seem_ like a complete and total dick. His soulmate is awkward, confused, slow on the uptake. He’s also gorgeous, fit… and, well, Dean already knew how _gifted_ he was. Although that doesn’t explain why. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

“Uh…” he frowns, head tilting sideways, “this is a _nude beach_.”

“A… a nude beach,” Dean scans the area, noticing many others who have chosen limited clothing for their stay. Many of them watching Dean and his soulmate with interest, heads turned their direction. Judgment hidden behind shaded lenses. He shrinks under their stares, rubbing at his forehead. Not that he has to worry, his mark should be gone. Years of practice are hard to overcome. “Is there anything on my forehead?”

He studies it for Dean, shaking his head. “Why should there be?”

“That’s where my mark was,” Dean explains, “where… _your dick_ was.”

“That’s… awful.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, leaning back. Hat miles away by now, not that he cares. His hands settle in his lap as he kneels, waves crawling forward and rushing over them. “I can fill in the blanks, though, over some food?”

Smiling, finally, the man agrees. “I’d love to…”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” he says, tasting the word in his mouth. Enjoying it, if the curl of his lips means anything. “My name’s Cas.”

“Cas.” Dean mirrors his expression, “I like that.” And he thinks he likes Cas. They… _clicked_. Hopefully the other man can prove having his dick on Dean’s forehead for twenty-five years was worth it.

Dean has no doubt it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked!!


	21. I Like Cocaine - Novelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet, inspired by our favorite little nephilim

His birthday had passed. It’s not Christmas. But still, a present sat on his lap. From Kaia it seems. _I saw it and thought of you._ That narrows down what it could be. Something related to angels, maybe. Or boys – he looked enough like one, relied on those pronouns, Jack wouldn’t blame her for the misstep. They’ve only met a handful of times anyway. However, as he opened it, he sees that it’s neither related to angels or boys.

It’s a shirt.

“What’d she get you, Jack?” Cas asks. He, along with Dean and Sam, waited for his answer. Watching on the other side of the kitchen island, gathered there when Dean brought back their mail. Envelopes and magazines in one hand while he carried the box under his other arm.

Jack grins, holding up the plain white graphic t-shirt. Flipping it so they can read. Sam frowns, lips pressed hard. Dean snorts, hiding behind Cas’s shoulder while his shook with laughter. Cas, meanwhile, tilted his head to the side.

“Why does it say that?”

“Because,” he says, laying the shirt over him like he’s seen the others do while shopping. Mentally applauding that it fit. “I like cocaine.” He parroted his new shirt, the simple phrase spelt large in black letters. No mistake as to what it said.

“Jack,” Sam sighs, “please tell me you’ve never tried cocaine.”

“But I did.” He squints, “Once, on the road.”

“Jack!”

“Someone offered me some. And it seemed rude to say no, since they were trying so hard.” Jack folded the shirt, placing it back in the box as he explains. “It was tasty. So tasty I swallowed the entire line.”

“You…” Dean wheezes, muffled by Cas’s coat, “you ate it?”

“Isn’t that what you do?” he asked. Running his finger along the table in a straight line, like he did when presented with cocaine. Then, Jack drags the finger close and mimes licking it. “That’s how you consume cocaine, right?” Dean, staring with only one eye, loses it in his hysterics. Sinking, dragging Cas with him.

Sam remains standing, pinching his brow. “Jack… has no one talked to you about drugs?”

“Dean said I should never take a joint from a guy named Don. Joint being a term for a marijuana cigarette.”

“A marijuana – oh my God!” Dean cries out of sight, “You’re, like, five. But you sound _fifty_.”

“Dean,” Cas growled, “let go of me!”

“Cas, buddy, I’m gonna piss myself. Don’t you _dare_.”

The reaction baffles Jack, confusion slowly sinking and ruining his good mood. His gaze drops to his shirt, tapping at the second ‘c’ in cocaine. “It was a nice gesture…”

Sam sighs, asking for Jack’s attention. “Kaia didn’t have to send that to you,” he starts, carefully choosing his words, “and… the card said it made her think of you?” Jack nods. “She didn’t give you the cocaine to try, right?” He tells him that’s not the case. “Then… it’s, like, an inside joke?”

“Yes!” Jack says, pouncing, “it’s how we met! I told her I liked cocaine!”

“Okay…” Deflating, Sam flicks at the box. “Then I guess you can keep it. As long as you don’t wear it outside the Bunker, I guess.”

“Thank you Sam! Thank you!” He gathers the box in his arms, jumping, “I’m gonna go wash it, so I can wear it right away!”

As he leaves, Jack hears Dean speak. Not close enough he can decipher what he says but knows his distinct timber by heart. Especially when Sam kicks him, Dean’s cry very specific. He does not care. Jack would rather work on the shirt, getting it ready for a lifetime of wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like? Leave a kudos/comment below!


	22. Merchesters - Like Ariel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just rememberd I was supposed to put the days in these notes... whoops!
> 
> Day 22 - Merchesters 🧜♂️🧜♂️🧜♂️

Cas found his children talking with a stranger. His already battered heart should have taken one final breath at this realization. But, as he descended those panicked highs their absence caused, Cas found no reason for worry. The stranger could not cause his young kids harm, lounging like he did. A green-scaled costume tying his legs together, replacing them with one large fin. He walked over on shaky legs, clearing his throat. Drawing three sets of eyes towards him.

“Daddy!” Claire cries, pouncing on him first. Jack following a beat later. Both kids grab for one of his hands, dragging Cas closer. “Daddy, we found a real-life _mermaid_!”

“You did?” Said mermaid curls slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. Sheepish, almost. “Is that why you two ran from where I could see you.” He looked away briefly. Searching his fanny pack for money so he can buy them ice cream. When he poked his head free from the pocket, they vanished. And Cas experienced the first aneurysm of his afternoon.

Claire mirrored the mermaid, studying her toes rather than Cas’s stern gaze. “No,” she admits, “I saw Jack chasing a seagull… and you were busy! An’ you said never go anywhere alone! So I figured I’d make sure he didn’t get in trouble –“

“We met this mermaid, though!” Jack says, jumping. Bits of sand spraying with each leap. “That’s gotta make up for running off, right?”

Cas finally deigns this _mermaid_ with his full attention, catching his stare. The mermaid flushes bright red, face turning away from him. Like one of his children when Cas catches them in the midst of breaking a rule. Acting innocent, doodling in the wet sand. “A mermaid, huh,” he huffs, “pretty far from home… aren’t you?”

“Well… not really,” he starts, voice a beautiful Midwestern twang that gives Cas the sense the man never spent _much_ time around water. “I mean… yeah, I was born way – _way_ out there. But I moved!”

“You moved!”

“Got a cozy little shell down by the aquarium,” he tells them, “they give me food and rent, and all I have to do is put on a show every now and then. Which – I’m grateful for. Don’t know how I’d make it without their kindness… I’m still confused with how you trade seaweed for things.”

“It’s called money, Dean,” Jack supplies, giving Cas a name to go along with that _face_. “How do you not know what money is?”

“Because there’s no such thing as money in the ocean, Jack. _Duh_!” Claire crosses her arms, grinning. “You remember the Little Mermaid. Wasn’t anything like that in the movies.”

Jack nods, attention latching onto Dean again. “So are you like Ariel, Dean? Huh? Is your dad king of the sea? Do you have a pet fish who talks? A seagull? Was that seagull I chased _yours_?” His son barrages Dean with tens of questions he cannot parse through. Taking pity, Cas lays a hand over Jack’s shoulder and squeezes. Stopping him.

“Jack,” Cas says, “one at a time.”

Dean smiles, grateful, before shining that dazzling expression at Jack. Eyes darting to the side momentarily. “I’d love to answer your questions Jack,” he says, “but first… don’t you think you should have some ice cream?”

“Ice cream –“ His kids barrel up the beach, towards a taller, shaggier man bearing twin cones. He hands them off to Cas’s kids, trading glances with Dean. Dean glowers, signing something at him. The other man sighs, bending as he converses with Claire and Jack. “So,” Cas hums, “you bought my kids ice cream?”

“Sorry about that,” Dean says, stretching. Tail wagging in response. “My brother’s not that great around kids. I pitched the ice cream thing to give him some space.”

“And him staying there, distracting them?”

“Gives you enough time to ask a few questions of your own.”

Cas silently applauds the quick thinking, sitting next to Dean. “Are you really a mermaid?”

“To pay the bills,” he explains, “I wasn’t lying too much, before. My brother and I work as mermaids over at the aquariums, swimming with the wildlife and doing all these neat tricks. The only difference is I actually live further inland.”

“So you being out here?”

“We needed promotional shots.” Dean shifts, lying on his side. Tail tucked under his bottom. “Newer ones, showcasing the upgrades to our costumes. I got Sam’s earlier, and we were in the middle of doing mine when your kids found us.”

Cas apologizes, “The Little Mermaid is their favorite movie.”

“Not a problem,” he snorts, “wasn’t the first time I got called Ariel. Won’t be the last.”

The sun sets behind them, Dean’s profile glowing as the rays strike from behind. Golden hour. Whatever lucky person snapped a picture now, they might convince even the world’s largest skeptic that creatures such as mermaids existed under the sea. It makes Cas dizzy. “Your show,” he continues, throat tight and dry, “is it popular?”

“It’s been pretty slow, these days,” Dean shrugs, “a lot of people getting ready for school. We cut our hours back from three times a day to only one.” He smiles, winking at Cas. “If you want tickets, though, I can tell the front desk to reserve four.”

“Three.” It’s important Dean knows. “Three tickets.”

“Your partner not a fan of mermaids?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cas says, “I don’t have one to ask.”

Understanding flashes in Dean’s eyes, lighting like algae in the murkiest depths. “Oh.”

Cas hears his kids returning, their voices carrying on the wind. He only has a few moments for this next question. Dean has to answer it. “Dean… is there a Prince Eric to your Ariel?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glub glub, did you lub it?


	23. Bunker Prom - Slow Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this is a cute one... almost makes me wish I could draw.
> 
> Or at least, have the time to practice drawing.
> 
> Anyway, Day 23 (give it up for Day 23) - Bunker Prom

“Okay… now Cas, put your arms around Dean.”

Dean grumbles, accepting Cas’s hold while laying both his hands atop Cas’s. Smiling when Jack gives the cue, waiting until his phone lowers once more. “Are you done?” he asks, “Because I am.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas huffs, breath ghosting across his ears, “let him be. He’s enjoying himself.”

“What about me, huh? When can I _enjoy_ myself?”

“How many proms have you been to?” he asks, “And how many has Jack?”

Sighing, Dean bites his tongue as Jack repositions them on the stairs. This time stepping behind Cas so he can do what he did moments earlier. Chest pressed against his back, midnight blue of Cas’s tux eclipsing his forest green.

Jack never knew what prom was, until he scrolled through Instagram one morning and saw millions of posts from strangers he followed all talking about the same subject. “What’s prom?” he asked, entering the kitchen.

Dean couldn’t answer, not enough coffee in his system. And Cas was half-asleep on his back, lulled into that state by gentle movements of Dean’s cooking and how he softly hummed while working. Leaving Sam as the only person capable. “It’s a dance,” he says, “for teenagers.”

“Can I go?”

“To prom?” Sam barked a short laugh, too awkward for any actual amusement. “Sorry, Jack… prom is something that teenagers who attend _high school_ get to do.”

He glanced at the younger boy, watching him deflate. “Oh…”

His heart panged in sympathy, egging him forward despite the lack of caffeine. Offering any kind of consolation. “Prom’s not that big a deal anyway,” he said, “crappy music, crappy decorations in a crappy gymnasium, a bunch of crappy people you barely gave a crap about – no _booze_. Hell, we could throw a better prom here in the Bunker.”

Which, when his mind caught up with his words, shows why Dean is better after drinking coffee.

Jack glowed, vibrating. “That’s a wonderful idea!” he said, bounding out of the room, “I’ll do research and – and make orders. A Bunker prom!”

Silence reigned for a few moments. Dean restarting as burnt pancake batter wafted past his nose, hurriedly flipping his latest piece in an attempt at saving it. “Shit,” Dean huffed, “we’re not really doing a Prom, are we?”

“I mean,” Sam winced, “you did say –“

“I didn’t say –“

“You said,” Cas interrupted, pinching at his nipple. “We could throw a better prom. Which means we _are_ … for Jack.” Grip tightening across his stomach, Cas nestled further. “Worry about that later, though. You’re not as comfortable when you’re worked up.”

That was a week ago. In such a short time, Jack planned for everything. Decorated the war room in the chosen theme – _Under the Stars_. Fake shapes hanging from the ceiling on invisible strings and taped on every available surface. Map table covered by an ugly tablecloth where a punch bowl and bowls upon bowls of snacks sat. At least Jack let him spike the punch for this evening. He’d need to be less than sober knowing Sam was tonight’s DJ. If it weren’t podcasts, his music will have him sleeping on the dance floor.

If he ever made it that far.

“Jack,” Dean whines, “Can Cas and I go dance now?”

“Almost!” he promises, motioning them down the Bunker’s front staircase. Guiding them towards Sam, the taller man in a simple black tuxedo like Jack’s, hair pulled up tight in a bun. Texting while the laptop blared music. “Before we do, we’re going to read out the winners of our Prom King and Queen!”

“Really?” Dean asks, “We’re doing this? There’s only four of us, and last I checked –“

“And, this year’s Bunker Prom King is…” Jack pauses the music, digging behind the podium for a plastic crown. “Castiel!”

Castiel bows his head, accepting his title. “Thank you, Jack. I’m honored that you’d vote me King.”

Dean stares at the crown, lost in one of the plastic jewels. Mind spinning, thinking. Ignoring Jack as he moves on to announce the winner of Prom Queen, choice narrowed by one. Except Jack would never choose himself. And Sam sat there without any worry, practically excited. Meaning…

“Dean!”

He snaps his gaze over, finding Jack waiting with a smaller crown on his head. “You won Prom Queen!” he tells Dean, “isn’t that exciting?”

“I… you…” Dean stumbles over a heavy tongue, still processing the chain of events as Jack crowns him. And while Cas carries him back a few feet onto a makeshift dance floor, the first song starting up. Dancing around him because Dean’s feet haven’t gotten the memo. “Me?” he finally says, whispers, “I’m queen?”

“If you want,” Cas says, “I told Jack it’d be perfectly fine if we have two Prom Kings but he said this is how it’s done, given his research.”

“He told you about this?”

“Would’ve told you, too, but you were busy ironing everyone’s outfits for tonight.”

“Yeah, well… not my fault the rental place gave us wrinkly suits.” He shuffles along with the melody, forehead pressed on Cas’s. “Y’know, this is my second time being Prom royalty?”

“Second?”

“One year I won Prom King,” he tells Cas, “but they had to give it to some other guy because I wasn’t there. Had already left by then… dragged off onto the next town. Only found out about it because I rolled through there for another case years later, and the prom queen told me over some drinks. Said she was disappointed, because after the dance she was looking for a _private audience_ with the king.”

Cas smiles, dropping a soft kiss on the corner of Dean’s lip. “Is that also tradition?”

“It can be _our_ tradition?”

“I’d like that…”

Dean does, too. And their kiss. What he doesn’t like is when Jack steps in, keeping them at arms-length. “For the Holy Spirit,” he says, “don’t let me catch you two like that again.” He leaves them for the punch bowl, uncaring that they’ve stopped dancing.

“The Holy Spirit,” Dean parrots, “where the hell did he get his research?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannot confirm if I was humming the finale song to 'Prom' while writing things 👀👀👀


	24. Worst. AU. Ever. - Gamma Zeta Omega

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 24 - Worst. AU. Ever.
> 
> Not my favorite to write, but then again it's supposed to be the worst. And my mind immediately went to douchey college frat bros.
> 
> I don't expect you to enjoy, but read on to see how badly you want to punch them!

Sam groaned, sunlight blasting him in the face and disturbing his sleep. A headache struck, rippling across his brain in retaliation for exposing his body to the morning after such intense drinking the night before. When the ringing stops, and he can crack open his eyes, Sam sees his brother standing above with a devious expression on his face. “Up and at ‘em Sammy!” he claps, wounding him further, “We got cleaning to do!”

He scowls, “We?”

“Okay, you got me,” Dean shrugs, “just you. Ain’t that right Cas?”

Cas swaggers beside Dean, crossing his arms over his chest. Smirking down at Sam, “Yep. You and all the other _pledges_.”

“Hell yeah, up top!” They high-five, a chorus of groans rising as Sam sees his other pledges waking from their own cocoons. In worse states than him. At least he kept his clothes, although one of his shoes is missing. He can worry about that later, when Dean isn’t giving him a list of instructions. “We want this place spotless for tonight!” he yells, rounding the room. Making sure each and every pledge is listening. “Because we’re in for some more _hazing_. Excited right? Let me hear you howl dogs!” It’s not good enough for him, their mimicked cries. Dean scowls, punching the wall. “I said _howl_ , bitches!”

“Howl!” Cas repeats, measured tone more frightening than Dean’s.

It’s a much better result.

“Thank you, Vice President Novak.”

“Any time, President Winchester.”

“Now,” Dean continues, grinning in a way Sam knows is trouble. Appearing whenever his brother thought of something incredibly devilish, humiliating, and cruel. “You’re probably wondering what we’ve got in store for you tonight, huh? I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise but… well, I’m kidding. I fucking love this part. We’re inviting some of the girls from Delta Phi Phi to show off our crop of recruits. And you wouldn’t want to disappoint them, isn’t that right Cas?”

“Not at all,” Cas says, tongue darting out past his teeth as his pupils dilated further. Red-rimmed, still, from earlier. “These girls got the biggest tits on the campus and sleeping with one is supposed to be the best thing you’ll ever experience in your entire, miserable life.”

“Trust him on this kids,” Dean says, “Cas knows what he’s talking about. Bagged the entire senior class of Deltas when he was a fucking sophomore.”

“They can make or break your reputation.” Cas nods at Dean, advancing, “If they don’t like what they see… then you can kiss any hope of getting through these next few years at the top of the food chain goodbye.”

“And any hope of marrying young or being a success in general.” Dean shrugs, “So we need you on your best behavior, not acting like fucking nerds. Once you’ve finished cleaning you’ll find your uniforms for tonight –“

“Uniforms?” Sam asks, wincing. From his own voice, from speaking out of turn and the twin sets of glares they crush him with. He doesn’t balk. “What are you making us wear?”

Dean doesn’t punish Sam as he expected. Like he warned the summer before Sam’s freshman year at Lawrence University. “I can’t show favoritism, Sammy,” he explained, passing the joint along while Cas nodded off at his right. “I got cred to protect.”

“But Dean, the only reason you’re president is because of dad –“

“Fuck that,” he says, “I got _in_ because of dad. Just because he was the president, and grandpa was the president before him, had nothing to do with my position. I got it because I deserved it.”

“Because you fucked the headmaster’s wife.”

“That, too,” Dean laughed, ruffling Cas’s hair as he slipped back into his stupor. “Either way, you gotta make big moves if you’re gonna survive. Just know that if you dish big, you gotta take big. Nepotism don’t exist when it comes to hazing.” He shoved at Sam, laughing, “Now, you gonna toke or can Cas and I finish off our weed?”

Dean smiles, warmth absent from the expression. “Good, you’ve learned. Nothing comes easy in life, boys. Translation, you’ll be wearing _these_ while us and the girls hold little competitions throughout the house.” He pulls a pair of panties from his pockets, showing them off. Handing them off to Cas when he tires of holding them. “Which all of you are expected to compete in, upon request. _Questions_?” A few boys raise their hands. “Good. Grab your toothbrushes and get to work!”

He and Cas bound up the stairs, stomping each step in an arhythmic pattern. Sam collapses on the couch, dragging a hand across his face. Breathes deep, repeating the same mantra he’s used since hazing started.

It’s only two weeks. He’s guaranteed a spot. He’ll be president in his own time.

And then he can crack the whip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blech. On to the next one!


	25. Mundane Bond - The Right Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So with this one, kind of like with the previous day, my mind immediately jumped to the most mundane thing I could think of.
> 
> Day 25 - Mundane Bond, Dean and Cas meet in the one place that perfectly encaptures the color beige

“Excuse me, sir? I don’t think that’s the right line.”

Dean turns, staring at the man who placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Spoke without prompting. “What?”

“This line?” he says, “It’s for passports. You’re not here for passports, are you?”

“Oh, no,” he admits, blushing, “I’m looking for the driver’s license line? I have to get mine renewed.” Dean glances at the tens of people in front of him, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Person I asked on the line before said I had to wait on this line –“

“I think they meant the line after this one,” the stranger, his savior, says. “I understand the confusion, though. Who could barely see the other line behind this one.”

“That’s for sure.” Dean steps out of the line, another tired, dead-eyed soul taking his place. “Thanks for the save,” he says, “I probably would’ve been there for forty years if you hadn’t pulled me out.”

“Think nothing of it,” he tells Dean, “I just happened to catch sight of your paperwork. I’m here for the same thing.” He shows his paper, Dean uncaring for the tedious information save the name this man put. _Castiel_. “I was just about to get on line, but since you were here longer, you should go in front of me.”

“Really? Thanks.” They enter the much shorter line, advancing quickly through it. Dean is next, and they haven’t talked much since Castiel and he got there. He turns, “Hey, you doing anything after this?”

“Not really, no,” Castiel says, “I figured I’d be spending my whole day here.”

“Me, too. You wanna grab a pizza or something once we’ve finished this?”

“…I’d like that.”

Dean grins, “Great!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, they can make anything cute! (Also, pretty sure this is the shortest fic in this collection)


	26. Cosplay Contest - Silver Medal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 26 - Cosplay Contest
> 
> Another short one! Honestly felt like I was losing steam, but sometimes not much needs to be said - especially for drabbles.

Sam couldn’t believe it. He barely held it together when they exited the building, tears rolling down his cheeks. But when the fresh air hit, Sam lost all composure. Howling, stumbling towards the Impala while Dean and Cas dawdled behind him. Former stewing in outrage while the latter carefully examined their prize.

“I can’t – I can’t…” he wheezes, slumping across Baby’s hood. Fist pounding on it, “I can’t believe you two…”

“Shut up Sam,” Dean growls, “I don’t want to hear it!”

“You two…”

“I said _quiet_!”

“You _lost_!”

Dean pounces, Sam rolling out of the way. Springing from their car, running around it. His brother chasing him all the while until he tripped and slammed face first onto the asphalt. This only made Sam laugh harder. His knees buckled, and Sam collapsed near Dean. Belly seizing with pain while his bladder protested, hold weak. If he were to piss himself, Sam might not mind. _That’s_ how good he felt watching Dean and Cas win second-place in a Supernatural themed costume contest.

They stopped in for a moment, curious. Unsure what they might see – especially since they shunted the author into a prison fit for a writer. An absent writer didn’t keep the spirit down, as the building teemed with life. Fans of their story bustling with energy, bouncing from stall to stall. A bevy of activities and panels, like fanfiction tips and galleries for fanart. Sam kept his gaze trained on the floor as he passed that on his way to the bathroom, aware of his face and the expressions painted.

But that’s where it started. Because when he exited, Dean and Cas had disappeared. When he found them, they were on stage with two other couples in similar dress. Dean parading proudly while Cas murderously glared like he’d rather be everywhere else.

Dean whines, flipping onto his back. “I thought we’d get first,” he admits, sitting. A nasty scrape cut over his chin. “I mean – w _e’re_ Dean and Cas. The real ones. How could we have _not_ gotten first?”

Cas pats at his head, tracing the lines of dirt on his forehead. Medal dangling in his grasp. “It’s okay Dean, silver is still a respectable medal.”

He continues, regardless of Cas’s comfort. “And the ones who did win!” he says, “Wings! Cas’s wings don’t _exist_ in our plane… hell, they don’t exist _anymore_.”

“If I might remind you, Dean,” Cas adds, touch harsher than before, “the reason we had points deducted was because _you_ chose – today of _all_ days – to forgo _plaid_.”

Dean huffs, tugging on his denim shirt. “Whatever. Fucking rigged… love to see what the _winners_ would do if faced with a vamp or a – or a werewolf. Or a… Sam? What are you doing?”

Sam, recovered enough he can move voluntarily, holds his phone to his ear. “Calling Claire,” he says, “she’d _love_ to know about this…”

“Don’t you even -!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You like? They might've won second place, but those two'll always be first in my heart


	27. Apple Pie Life. Literally - Windowsill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had no idea where I was gonna go with this. I thought I was gonna do something wholesome... and then the below happened. I honestly just followed my exhaustion lol.
> 
> This is very out-there for Apple Pie Life. Literally.

Dean places his pie on the windowsill to cool, watching as steam rises from his golden, flaky crust. Breathing deep, the apple mixes with cinnamon and sends a thrill racing across his nerves. His tongue peeks out, swiping at his teeth as he imagines biting into a gooey slice. Patience waning faster now that it’s in his sight. He resists temptation, however, glancing from his creation and at the backyard.

At his family, all at work. Picking more apples from their grove in the backyard, Sam and Castiel on ladders. Jack beneath them with a basket half-filled with the stuff. Catching whatever the two men drop down.

Sighing, Dean tightens the bow on the back of his apron and spins on his heel. He grabs another pan, preparing it for baking.

They used to hunt. Before, the Winchesters traveled throughout America solving mysteries and taking down monsters. Until one day they stopped. Retired, drawn from the action and into a simpler, quieter life. Where they rose with the sun, Dean making apple turnovers and putting sliced apples in oatmeal. Then, when the three came in for lunch, Dean had applesauce and apple salads along with stuffed apples waiting. And once they’ve bagged the last of the day’s apples, he’ll have another feast of apples for them with the shining jewel of his cooking – an apple pie – for dessert.

“Apples, apples, apples,” he chuckles, blade coming down hard. Whacking the cutting board, slicing into it. “Nothing but apples…”

Hunting was important, but then it wasn’t. Here one day. Gone the next. Dean tries, sometimes, remembering what it felt like. Holds the knife a littler differently. Stabs the apples instead of cuts them. Muscles burning with a strong desire. Soon though, the feeling passes. His old life fades, replaced with more apples. They’re what’s important now.

The new family business – picking apples, cooking with apples… Eating apples.

Each day that other Dean Winchester fades further into the fog, and he misses him less. Shiny, red fruit filling those holes so he wouldn’t notice them.

The kitchen door slams open, Sam entering first. Trailed by Cas and Jack, each of them carrying bushels of apples. Still, Dean asks, “What do you have for me today?”

“Apples!” they cry in unison, as always.

“Good, good,” Dean wipes his hands on the apron. “Put them away and then go get washed up! Dinner’ll be ready shortly.” He turns, hearing as they stampede through the room. Dean huffing silent laughter under his breath.

This second pie is nearly done. Dean places it in the warm oven, setting the timer. Then, removing his apron, he goes for his first pie.

It wasn’t just apples. There’s another important aspect of his new life, on par with the Winchester’s latest obsession. Dean carries the dessert outside as he has every night since moving into this othered space. Leaves crunching, tickling his bare feet as he walks the well-tread path towards her shrine. Bows at her statue, laying the pie on her altar. “Thank you,” he prays, “for this day. We will continue to serve until you deem us unworthy.”

Dean waits for her blessing. An apple drops from above, rolling until it stops in his line of sight. He picks it up and bites into the fruit, juice dribbling down his chin. Smiling, Dean eats until only the core remains. And then he swallows that, too. Using every part of her gift. When he looks up, Dean sees the pie has been polished off. Only the tin remaining.

Another day, then.

Dean and his family can live this apple pie life for one more day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is what it is, folks lol


	28. Unconventional Demon Summoning - Intrusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had an idea for this, too. But it changes like all my prompts the longer I let them stew. I'm more interested in this anyway than what I originally planned.
> 
> Enjoy!

Cas chuckled, Dean’s ministrations tickling at his ribs. Pie filling warm on his bare chest, pieces of it sliding off and staining the sheets. “That’s why we’re doing it in a motel,” Dean explained, lips trailing across his cheeks, “we ain’t gonna be the ones to clean it up.”

“Dean…” he sighed, pushing at him. Failing, “we can at least _try_ to be careful.”

“Honey, I’ve _seen_ you when your in the midst of it,” Dean said, “we’re making a _mess_ tonight.”

And they had. After dinner, both men dug into dessert. First, Cas used ice from the outside dispenser to wake Dean up. Dragged the cubes across his skin until it rose. Then, he added some scoops of ice cream – two on Dean’s chest and another over his privates. Frozen treat already melting, Cas laving at the milky streams with passion. Smearing most of it over his mouth, making it sticky.

Before it could become more so, Dean flipped them over. Straddled Cas, he reached into the bag and revealed an unopen can of pie filling. “Can’t have ice cream without pie, Cas,” he said, throwing the lid off wildly. Dean dipped his hand in it, ooze dripping from his fingers. Warm droplets falling on Cas’s chest.

“Do it,” Cas breathed, “paint me.”

“Any requests?”

“My name,” he told Dean, “my _true_ name. In Enochian, like I showed you.” Dean nodded, setting to work. Though it took much longer than Cas anticipated, probably because his partner distracted easily. Focus lost as he focused on particularly _sensitive_ areas.

He thinks Dean is nearly done. Circle rounding the last curve. “That’s it,” Cas moans, “read it for me. What’s it say?”

“Castiel,” Dean says. He brushes excess off onto Cas’s chin, “it says –“

“Cadriel, at your service. What do you – _aah_!”

Dean bounces off of Cas, spilling the pie all over himself. Cas launches forward, grabbing for the blanket. Waiting, by the door, a red-eyed demon stared in mock horror. Panic fading as she took the whole scene in, expression replaced with interest. Recognizing them. “Wait, Dean and Castiel! You _are_ together!” She pumped her fist, “And here we thought you’d never get out of your assess…”

“What the hell!” Dean barked, plastic bag held on top of his privates. “Why are you here?”

“You called me?”

“No, I didn’t?”

“Yeah, you did.” She points at Castiel, smirking, “Direct line, too. Took me away from a very boring meeting, honestly, so I’m not mad. Especially since you two gifted me with a great story… and with souls no longer the name of the game, currency’s changed.”

Castiel tunes her rambling out, following her pointed finger. Gaze landing on his chest, at the Enochian Dean spelt there. He scowls, whacking him across the back of his head. Dean yelps, turning to him. “This is your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a treat... right?


	29. Rejected Castiel Ties - Painted Silk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was gonna actually draw this one - that turned out not happening lol.
> 
> 31 days of full writing prompts! This one, for Day 29, is Rejected Castiel Ties

Castiel stares at the gift in Dean’s hand, hoping his face won’t give anything away. Silence, however, tells all. Dean droops the longer he refrains from responding, tie slipping from his grip. “You don’t like it?” he asks.

“It’s not…” Castiel starts, treading carefully, “not that I don’t _like_ it. But when I said I needed a new tie I was expecting something I could…”

“You could…?”

“ _Use_.”

Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “A tie’s a tie, Cas. You can use this one!”

“I can _not_ ,” he hisses, snatching the tie from Dean’s slack grip. Pointing at the figure painted across the fabric, “Wear _anything_ with you _naked_ on it.” Naked and mid-masturbation, the artist capturing the expression of Dean’s orgasm face perfectly. As well as the curve of his penis. The attention to detail amazed Castiel, but it didn’t overpower the intense shock that struck when he saw what Dean held.

Dean remains nonplussed. “It’s a good tie, Cas,” he says, “and people wear ties like that all the time.”

“Do they?”

“I mean… they wear _artsy_ ties.” Dean slinks forward, fingers dancing along Castiel’s neck as his arms lay on his shoulders. “Come on, Cas…” he sings, “can’t you imagine? You and me, working a case. It’s normal at first, but then someone sees what you’ve got on. And then they look at me… and make the connection? Don’t you want everyone in the world to know who I belong to?”

It’s a vivid image, one that fills Castiel with a fiery rage. He loops the tie over Dean’s neck, pulling him close. To the point where their noses touch. “The _universe_ should know that you are mine, Dean Winchester,” he growls, “but if you think I’d let anyone have the pleasure of seeing you naked that isn’t me… you’re sorely mistaken.”

Dean grins, cooing. “Jealous?”

“Practical.” Castiel grinds against him, savoring how Dean’s breath hitched. “We’d never get anything done if people saw this tie. Your body drives people to madness… to sin… to wanton lust. Even now I can barely control myself.”

“Who asked you to do that?”

Castiel tears at Dean’s button-down with a single swipe, buttons cascading off of him. “I think I need to really see,” he says, “if the artist got every _freckle_ right.”

“Have at it, baby.”

* * *

Sam knocks on Dean’s door, again. Nothing. “Come on, Dean,” he sighs, “I know you’re in there.” He tries one last time. His efforts earn him more nothing.

Stepping back, he wonders what keeps Dean from answering. He saw his brother sneak over after coming back from town, package hidden behind his back. Thought he was doing a good job hiding when Sam watched the poor display from behind the curtain of his hair. Wrote it off as his brother being an idiot. But he needs the part of Dean that isn’t an idiot, because they’ve got work to do. “Dean!” he goes for the doorknob, “you better have a good reason –“

He hadn’t noticed it earlier. A piece of fabric tied on the knob, dangling. It’s a tie, from what he can tell. Blue, like Cas’s. Except, as he trails down, Sam sees a glaring difference.

“Ugh, gross!” he flinches, burned by the sight of his naked brother. Sam covers his eyes, dashing around the corner. “For fuck’s sake Dean, use a sock next time!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, this would've been great to draw as a tie tho am I right?


	30. Bunker's New Mascot - Playing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirty down - one more to go!!!
> 
> Really excited to share this one with y'all, hope you enjoy what animal I think should be the Bunker's New Mascot
> 
> (runner up was a dead horse lol)

Dean hadn’t screamed. It’s a fact. Something he cannot do. Even if he wanted to, his voice prevented that. Deep baritone could never reach the high falsetto notes that rang throughout the Bunker’s halls. He bets Sam was making tea – in four different teapots. Each whistling in harmony at the exact moment he opened his hamper and saw unblinking, beady eyes staring up at him.

And again, when those seemingly lifeless eyes blinked.

“Dean? Dean!” Sam sped into the room, Cas and Jack at his heels, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He points, voice cracking as he pushes against the upper limits of his range. “ _That_!” Three gazes follow his finger, landing on the possum making its nest between Dean’s dirty drawers and sweat-soaked undershirts. Each have their own, unique reaction.

Sam, who held a gun at the ready, dropped it while leaping backwards. Hiding behind a stoic Cas. Angel squinting in confusion over their intruder. Meanwhile Jack, the most interesting member of this group, offered a guilt-ridden smile. Brows bent in an awfully suspicious angle.

Dean immediately attacks. “Jack,” he growls, “what did you do?”

Jack winces, hands flicking upwards in a defensive gesture. “Don’t get mad,” he starts, albeit too late, “but I… I didn’t intend for her to get out of my room!”

“Your room?” Sam asks, glaring, “You brought that… that _thing_ in here?”

Castiel nods towards Sam, whispering. “It’s a _possum_ , Sam.”

“I know what it is!”

“Oh…” He huffs, “I wasn’t sure.” Cas looks at the possum, frown more severe than earlier. “Why would you bring a possum into our home, Jack? They aren’t pets.”

“They can be!” Jack argues, “I remember reading articles about how people can domesticate all sorts of things… that dogs and cats weren’t pets but after years of training. That some people keep raccoons as pets…” He strides close, snatching his quarry in firm hands. Despite how it wriggles and struggles, scratching at skin that heals in seconds. Biting at impervious fingers. “And what’s even better than a racoon? A _possum_.”

His reasoning doesn’t receive the fanfare Jack expected. Dean whirls on Sam, pointer aimed at him. “This is your fault.”

“Me!” Sam squawks, “How is it mine?”

“You’re the one always picking the animal flicks during movie night. Of course Jack’d get the crazy idea from one of those.”

“Excuse me, but in _none_ of those movies did the main characters befriend a freakin’ _possum_!”

“You have to admit though,” Cas adds, “you don’t help matters when, after we watch these movies, you start getting wistful about owning pets.”

Sam shoved himself away from Cas, scowling. Bleeding from the knife Cas stabbed into his back, “You too, Cas?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Why am I even surprised, you always take Dean’s side.”

“That’s not true,” Cas tells Sam, “Just the other day I slipped vegetables into Dean’s dinner like you asked –“

“You what?” Dean yells, “Cas! How could you?”

“It’s for your own good, Dean. Don’t you want to be healthy?”

“Do you _wanna_ sleep on the couch tonight?”

“Can we stick with the subject?” Sam claps, stopping any further battles. They turn on Jack, younger boy cradling the possum in his arms. Sheepishly attempting an air of innocence, batting eyelashes in a faux Bambi act that would work if not for the snarling, spitting, hissing pile of fur he clutches. “Jack,” he says, “you can’t keep that animal in the Bunker.”

“But why not?”

“Because this Bunker is not the best environment for a possum,” Cas explains, “they belong outdoors, with trees and leaves. Or neighborhoods… with trees and leaves. It wouldn’t be happy here.”

“And we wouldn’t be happy with it here, either,” Dean says, “Possums are breeding grounds for diseases… I don’t care how many times you use your angel mojo on me, if that thing even _touches_ me I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean.”

“But… but…” Jack pouts, searching for a life preserver. He tosses one out blindly, shouting, “He’s like us?”

Dean’s expression falters. “You think we’re like possums, Jack? After everything we’ve _done_ for you?”

“No, no, I…” Jack smiles down at the possum, stroking its head. “When I found her, she was curled on the side of the road. Looked like she was dead and I… I was about to bring her back to life. But then she popped up like it was nothing –“

“One of their defense mechanisms,” Cas explains, “to keep them safe from predators.”

“I know that now. Back then… her coming back to life, how could I not take her with me?” He holds it out, bottom half dangling. “We’ve all played possum one way or another in our lifetimes, maybe even more than once! She’d be the perfect pet – the perfect _mascot_!”

It’s a sweet sentiment. Adorable logic that makes Dean’s next words even crueler. He grabs for Sam’s gun, flicking the safety off. “Either she’s out of here in the next few minutes,” Dean says, “or she won’t just be _playing_.”

Jack disappears with a flutter, gone from Dean’s room. He hands his brother’s gun back, ignoring his and Cas’s stares. “Dumb rodent,” he mutters, circling his hamper, “don’t know whether I should wash these or _burn_ them.”

“Y’know, you could’ve gone about that a bit nicer,” Sam says.

Dean rolls his eyes, “It worked didn’t it?”

“Still you owe Jack an apology.”

“He owes me one!”

“Dean, stop being so obstinate,” Cas orders, arms crossed. Wearing a mask that usually means Dean is in boiling water, the flame underneath getting hotter and hotter as the dial spins. “Otherwise you’ll be the one sleeping on the couch.”

“After seeing Jack’s idea of a _mascot_ in here – I was already planning to, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think? Let me know by dropping a kudos/comment below


	31. Group Costume - Winner Picks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we wrap up Cracktober...
> 
> I will say, these were nice exercises that really helped me think outside the box, flex my skills, and get my mind off other things lol. Most of these are definitely great to read if you're looking for a good laugh.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jack stares at his name, Sam’s quick scrawl legible despite all the wrinkles it held from Dean’s zealous attempts at folding. He rereads the four-letter word instead of glancing up, at three aggravated sets of glares. Each waiting for him to decide.

They only had a few days before Jody’s Halloween party, and they still could not decide on a costume. What the Winchesters can agree on was making it a group costume. That’s when they ran into their problems.

“It’d be really funny, Dean,” Sam plead his case, “C’mon… it’s only for a day anyway. And everyone’d know it’d be a joke. What’s so wrong with being a group of hippies?” He shows off his tablet, where an edited photo of their family appears. Outfits replaced with outlandish threads Jack never knew could exist, and hair far past lengths he thought the others were comfortable with. “It’d be a nice change of pace!”

“You mean before or after my toes purpled from hypothermia,” Dean shot back, sipping at his beer. “You’re not getting me in tie-dye, even if this was happening in Southern California instead of South Dakota.” He sniffs, holding up his phone with another selected image. “Don’t know why you’re against my idea, though. The Scooby Gang are practically hippies in their own right.”

Sam scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I am _not_ doing that. If we don’t have a dog than what’s the point?” He glances between him and Cas, grimacing, “Besides, I’m won’t be party to helping you fulfill some teenage fantasy, watching you and Cas make out as Fred and Daphne. Keep that shit _inside_ the bedroom.”

Cas glowers at Sam, fiddling with an antlered headband he picked out earlier when they shopped for costumes. “Which is why you see how I’m _not_ on board with this idea.”

“Cas, if you’d just _try_ the –“

“ _I’m_ not Daphne, Dean,” Cas reminds him. An argument they’ve often had, judging by the exasperation edged throughout his sigh. “Besides, if you two even _pictured_ how adorable we’d look as deer –“

“No.” Both brothers pulled the rug out from Cas’s feet, not bothering to listen as Cas goes over – again – how being hunters made this choice the most ridiculous.

Jack had no plan on what he wanted. The costumes in the shop were fantastic, and he would wear them all if Halloween were more than one night a year. However, if he wants to make a decision fast before the others steamroll ahead. Which meant less listening and further reading. In the article he read as their bickering increased, it said homemade, clever costumes were popular. Things that will bring a sensible chuckle. He tried thinking of ideas like that.

Sam interrupted his brainstorming with a small thunderclap. “We’ll draw names out of a hat,” he said, “whoever’s name gets picked, they decide on the costume. Fairest way we can go about this, right? As long as we agree to the costumes – _no_ matter _what_.”

Dean grumbled his assent, while Cas proudly declared his luck. Jack’s nod went ignored as the three men scrounged for materials. Paper, pen, and an unused hat.

Now, it all rests on his shoulders. But the mounting pressure weights heavier than the world, and Jack feels his stamina fading. Mind jumping from idea to idea, hoping one will stand out. He can sense the others’ impatience. Sam’s drooping brows, Dean’s curled lip. How Cas taps on the table in rapid pace.

Dean’s finger does the same thing, and Sam also has a problem where the corners of his mouth bend. Cas’s eyebrows fall to a similar level as Sam’s. Over the years, they’ve adopted similar mannerisms.

And that’s when it hits. “I’ve got it!”

* * *

Jody opens the door in a witch’s hat holding a bowl of candy. Her hand reaches inside as she laughs, “Okay, who wants some –“ She finally takes in the group in front of her, and Jody lets the candy slips through her fingers. “Oh… it’s you.” Biting back her giggling, she studies each of their costumes carefully. “Who are you supposed to be?”

Jack purses his lips, squints, and cocks his head to the side. “We’re Team Free Will,” he declares, grunting, “I’m Dean.”

Dean waves half-heartedly with the hand not holding Cas’s, pushing bangs from his face that fell over since last he fixed the wig. “Sam.”

Cas mirrors Dean, although copying Jack’s movements like his reflection with how his fingers bend and straighten. “Hi, I’m Jack.”

“And I’m Castiel, the Angel of the Lord.” Sam really committed, tying his hair back in a loose ponytail. Trench coat pooling at his sides, kneeling, pantlegs rolled up aiding to this illusion.

“Team Free Will, huh?” Jody jerks her thumb inside, smirking, “Glad you could make it. I’ve got a couple of demons that could use some exorcising.” She turns into the room, yelling, “Hey everyone! Team Free Will made it!”

Judging by everyone’s reactions, and how Claire holds her phone up while they enter, Jack thinks he made the right call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has kept up with these and read them as I churned this content out.
> 
> Let me know which of these were your favorite below! 😁

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Let me know by dropping a kudos and/or a comment!


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